Out of the Dark (The Brethren Series) Page 5

  It’s going to be awhile before I heal, he thought, biting back a wince again as he took a limping step forward. A long while.

  Rene had set Mason’s pistol down on a countertop, presumably so he could beat the shit out of Aaron. Aaron retrieved the gun now, a handsome Glock .45 automatic. Cradling it in his hand, he discharged the magazine, made sure it was full, then slapped it home again in the stock. It wasn’t his Heckler and Kock, but it would do in a pinch.

  He couldn’t shoot Rene, though. There was no way to do so without drawing attention to himself, and no way to silence the sound of a gunshot. They had taken his knife away before tying him up, and Aaron had no idea what had become of it. He had more in his car; that was no big deal, but for the moment, it left him with only his hands.

  Planting one foot on either side of Rene, he leaned down and cupped Rene’s head between his palms. Quick twist, snap his spinal cord at the brain stem. Dead on arrival.

  All at once, though, he heard Naima’s voice in his head, saw her face again, her pleading, anguished expression. Aaron, don’t you remember me?

  God, he wanted to, if only so he could understand the breadth of emotions he’d seen in her face, heard etched in her voice. He wanted to know why she was overjoyed to see him, but heartbroken at the same time; why touching him had brought her so much comfort, and yet so much pain. Through his telepathy, he’d been able to sense all of these things, but even without it, he wasn’t blind; her inner turmoil had been written plainly on her face, in her eyes.

  Who are you? he’d wanted to ask her. How do you know me?

  He looked down at Rene Morin, at his hands still cupped to either side of Rene’s face. It should have been so easy.

  It should have been, but all at once, inexplicably, he found it wasn’t. Because he couldn’t stop thinking about Naima.

  Aaron, don’t you remember me?

  He opened his hands, letting Rene’s head fall with a heavy thunk to the floor.

  “Goddammit,” he muttered, then limped away, leaving Rene sprawled on the floor. Crossing the lab, he went to the nearest window and pushed it open. This time, he opted to remove the screen altogether, since his knives had been taken and he had nothing left to cut with. He eased the screen frame out of the window and set it quietly aside, propped against the wall. With a rueful grimace, he ducked his head and straddled the window sill, feeling the rush of cool night air through his pants.

  He didn’t like leaving a job unfinished. Neither did Lamar. If it had been a matter of using the gun, it wouldn’t have proven so problematic. But Lamar wanted blood—and plenty of it. Aaron knew how to cut his losses, and when it was most prudent to retreat, regroup and retry. But still…

  “Goddammit,” he said again, his voice ragged and hoarse. Lamar was not going to be pleased.

  Because I fucked up, he thought. Again.

  And with that, he swung his leg around and slipped off the window sill, dropping silently to the ground two stories below.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Naima stood along the moonlit edge of Emerald Bay. The shoreline here was cragged with pebbles and stones, unlike the white, powdery sand of the nearby tourist beach at Vikingsholm mansion, and the dense growth of pines trees continued from the wooded hillsides nearly to the lake’s edge.

  Breathe, she thought, her eyes closed as the cool wind off the still water bathed her face. Just breathe.

  Michel had taught her how to refocus her mind and emotions through this simple technique—inhaling for three seconds, holding the breath for another three, then releasing in a slow, steady exhale over yet another. She’d employed this technique countless times, always picturing her grandfather in her mind as he’d been when he’d taught it to her: standing behind her, hands draped lightly against her shoulders, his voice low and gentle in her ear.

  Breathe for me.

  Sometimes Naima suffered from what Michel called feral fugues. Most of the time, these were brought on by extreme stress, which was why Michel had worked with her diligently over the years to better rein her emotions under control. He believed the fugues were the result of trauma, a psychological sort of scar left in the wake of the abuse she’d suffered as Lamar’s prisoner. They would result in “brown outs,” or severe depletions in her level of consciousness, her ability to think rationally or logically; a sort of hyper-sensitized “fight or flight” reaction. They were terrifying to her, because she often acted out impulsively—or worse, violently—and although she was aware of her actions, it was as if she watched from outside of her own body, helpless to stop or prevent them.

  Just breathe, she thought, because ever since she’d realized it was Aaron Davenant in the compound’s medical clinic, she’d been struggling inside with a raging whirlwind of memory and emotion.

  “Whatever your past connection to that man at the clinic, it is long over with and done.” Augustus’ voice, unexpectedly near, startled her, and her eyes flew open wide. Standing about twenty feet away from her, he struck a long, lean silhouette in the moonlight, his waist-length fall of pale hair fluttering in a light but insistent breeze coming off the water.

  “There will be no resurrecting or salvaging it,” he told her. “He is Lamar Davenant’s puppet now, which makes him the most dangerous creature you will ever meet.”

  “You’ve been talking with Eleanor.” Naima bristled. All at once, preventing the onset of a fugue state—during which she was prone to seriously injuring anyone who happened to be in her immediate vicinity—no longer seemed so imperative.

  “Hardly avoidable, considering I’m married to her,” Augustus replied mildly. “But, no. If she’s aware of your familiarity, she’s never told me about it.”

  “Then I guess we’re all good at keeping secrets,” Naima said, her brows narrowed. “Aren’t we, Augustus?”

  Lamar had often had company in the library of his great house, other Brethren males who would join him for brandy or pipes as if they were all so very cultured, such well-bred and civilized gentlemen. Often on those occasions, she would be dragged out from her cell beneath the floor and forced to sit naked at Lamar’s feet, with an iron collar locked around her neck and a short tether of chain Lamar kept tight hold of, like she was some kind of well-heeled dog. The other men had regarded her as they might have a piece of furniture; they’d give her passing glances, but otherwise remain preoccupied with their brandies and talk of business or politics.

  On one occasion, Augustus had been among those who had gathered in Lamar’s library. She’d been a teenager at the time, and those by-gone days from her life on the Morin farm had seemed more like some sweet but fragmented dream to her than any real components of her life. She hadn’t known Augustus, but still clearly remembered looking up into his face and seeing something there, something different than the reproach or indifference the others had awarded her.

  He pitied me.

  He had been the Elder of his clan at that point, and like Michel, a member of the Brethren Council. Michel had always told her that the Noble clan’s alliance with the Davenants had been tentative, and never of Augustus’ free will or choosing, but Naima had always wondered just the same.

  “You knew,” she told him, her voice low and taut. “I remember seeing you in Lamar’s library. You knew who I was.”

  “I did, yes,” he acknowledged with a nod. “Just as you know the boy who attacked your grandfather.”

  “Don’t change the subject,” Naima said. She’d wanted to confront him about this ever since his arrival at the compound—hell, ever since Eleanor’s arrival among them two years earlier. Eleanor had always spoken so highly of Augustus, as had Michel, but no matter their words, Naima’s impression of the man had always been clouded by that night, by that look of pity on his face—and the fact that, despite his sympathy…

  “You left me there.” Her body had grown rigid, seized with furious tension, and she struggled to keep her voice level and calm as she locked gazes with him. “You coward. You knew what had happe
ned, who I was, but you did nothing about it.”

  “What would you have had me do?” he asked.

  “You could have told my grandfather.”

  Augustus had kept that night a secret from Michel. Upon her escape years later, when Naima’d blundered into Michel and the rest of the clan in the underground tunnels twining beneath the Brethren farms, he’d been stunned to see her. When he’d realized who she was, he’d seized her in a fierce embrace, his voice choked with shocked tears as he’d whispered, “It’s not possible!”

  For her part, Naima had never said anything to Michel, either, had never once intimated that his best friend, a man Michel trusted more implicitly than most of his own blood kin, had been keeping a very significant secret from him for all of those years. She couldn’t have hurt Michel with that brutal truth, even if it meant her own vengeance against Augustus for his abandonment. Not for the world. “I did what I thought was best,” Augustus said. “Had I known then what I know now, I would have acted differently.”

  “You would have helped me.”

  “I would have taken you from there myself, yes.”

  “You’re a liar,” Naima seethed, her fists balling. Her heart pounded in her ears now, a furious, rushing cadence.

  “There were politics at work in that moment, child, that you did not—and could not—possibly understand,” he said.

  “I’m not a child,” Naima cut in.

  He raised his brow. “No,” he conceded. “You are not. You are a grown woman now, an adult, and I hope by that you will realize that I was as helpless to act against Lamar in any capacity as you were. My hands were as effectively tied.”

  “You mean you were afraid of him.”

  “I was, yes,” Augustus said mildly, holding her gaze. “As were you. And both of us, rightly so.”

  Naima opened her mouth, ready to snap at him in retort, but froze as his words sank in—truly hitting her for the first time. She’d been so angry, so filled with vengeful spite only moments earlier, she’d all but missed it.

  He is Lamar Davenant’s puppet now, which makes him the most dangerous creature you will ever meet.

  “What do you mean?” she asked. She’d wanted to keep that vicious edge of fury in her voice, but instead, it came out uncharacteristically small, as close to tremulous as she’d heard herself in a long, long time. “What do you mean, we should still fear him? Lamar is dead. You were dominant Elder. That means Lamar is dead.”

  “No,” Augustus said gently. “He rescinded his position among the clans in 1910.”

  “What?” Naima stumbled backwards, recoiling as if he’d physically struck her.

  “It was a resignation taken against his will,” Augustus continued. “The Council had been prepared to vote him out because of his age if he had refused.” His expression grew pained. “He returned to his home, the Davenant manor house, where he has lived ever since…and remains to this day.”

  “He’s still alive?” Naima whispered in horrified disbelief. She shook her head as all of the strength abruptly drained from her knees, forcing her to sit down hard against the cold, pebbled ground. “No. That…that’s not possible.”

  Augustus’ phone rang, and he turned away to answer it, leaving Naima to sit, shocked and sputtering, beside the water. All she could think of was Aaron, of the cold, vacant look she’d seen in his eyes at the medical clinic, and imagine all of the things Lamar could have done—all of the horrific, sadistic, vicious ways—to have ingrained that look, that complete and utter emptiness in him.

  Two hundred years, she thought, her eyes clouding with tears, her throat threatening to collapse inward upon itself with the staggering, sudden weight of them. Oh, my God, he’s still alive and Aaron has been with him—at that sick, sadistic fuck’s mercy—all this time!

  In her mind, she’d always found comfort from the realization that Lamar couldn’t hurt them anymore, either of them; that Augustus’ ascension to dominance over the clans had meant that at long last, Lamar had died, that Aaron had been free. She’d tried to imagine happiness for him, wives and children, a quiet, comfortable and happy sort of life. It had been childlike of her, she’d known; idealistic and naïve, but she’d held on to that hope for him all of that while.

  But it was a lie.

  “He’s escaped,” Augustus said from behind her, and she didn’t need to who he meant. “He attacked Rene, then climbed out the window.”

  “Is Rene alive?” she asked, her voice little more than a croak.

  “Yes, but barely.”

  Oh, God, Naima thought in dismay. To Augustus, she said, “Go back to the clinic. He might make another try at Tristan. I’ll try to track him in the woods.”

  “He’s armed,” Augustus said. “He took Mason’s gun.”

  “He won’t shoot me,” Naima said.

  Augustus studied her for a moment. “How do you know that?”

  Her brows narrowed as she met his gaze evenly, defiantly. Because I know Aaron, she thought, keeping her mind closed, preventing Augustus from overhearing. And you don’t. That’s eating you up right now, isn’t it, Augustus?

  Karen had been right; if anyone among the Kentucky Brethren should have recognized Aaron on sight, it was Augustus. But he hadn’t—and he still didn’t have a clue.

  “Tell me his name, child,” Augustus said softly, his brows lifting with implore, his voice a gentle plea. She might have found something paternal in that expression, something endearing and trustworthy—if only she didn’t remember how he’d left her behind in Lamar’s library, naked and cowed, no better than a dog.

  “Go fuck yourself, Augustus.” Naima stalked past him, shoving him aside as she stomped back into the forest.

  ***

  She found Aaron's car outside of the compound perimeter. He’d driven it off the access road and a short distance into the woods, just enough to conceal the Infiniti coupe from easy view from the road, but not far enough to risk getting mired or stuck in soft loam. It had California plates, and when she telekinetically popped the locks and leaned inside, she caught the distinctive, pleasant, nearly Plasticine whiff of new-car smell: a rental. The interior seats were upholstered in charcoal grey leather, the outside of the car a brushed-steel shade. There were little, if any, personal effects visible in the cabin upon initial inspection: a crumpled receipt from a gas station in South Lake Tahoe where Aaron had apparently stopped and paid cash for a bottle of iced tea, and said bottle, half-empty, in the center console cup holder compartment.

  Naima settled herself into the front seat, listening to the soft groan of the slick leather beneath her. He would head straight for the car; of that she had no doubt. Even though she’d sent Augustus back to the clinic under the pretense of precaution, she didn’t believe for a moment he’d go anywhere near Tristan—or any other of the Morin clan—again that night.

  He’s hurt, needs to heal. He’s going to go somewhere to lay low in the meantime. And he’s going to need to drive to get there.

  She let the door fall closed with a soft click, extinguishing the overhead light and plunging the cab in darkness. Leaning across the dash, she opened the glove box, and golden glow from a miniature bulb inside spilled across the contents and floor board. Inside, she found a carbon copy from a rental agreement, neatly folded lengthwise, made out and signed in the name of Aaron Broughman. Beneath this, she found a man’s leather billfold that contained four crisp, like-new one hundred dollar bills, four fifties and a pair of twenties tucked in the money compartment. The only other things in the wallet were a platinum Visa card in the name of Aaron Broughman, and a New York driver’s license issued in that same name, with Aaron’s photo.

  Why wouldn’t he go by the Davenant name? she wondered. And why a New York license? An Upper East Side address was listed. Was it Aaron’s? Was that why Augustus hadn’t recognized him—because he’d lived in Manhattan?

  Although she’d not-so-secretly enjoyed the fact that this clearly baffled—and aggravated—Augustus, she
still found herself puzzled. I thought Eleanor told me once that the Brethren in Kentucky weren’t allowed to leave the farms.

  In the center compartment, she found an iPhone, but the touchscreen was locked with a four-digit pin number required for access. A pair of wired earbuds lay in a tangled heap alongside of it, with a thicker cable, a recharger, beneath these. There was also a leather pouch with a zippered seam: a shaving kit. Inside, she found a slim electric razor and charging cable, a toothbrush in a plastic traveling case, a travel-sized tube of Colgate toothpaste, dental floss, Q-tips, and curiously, what looked like an old necklace.

  Her heart stopped as she lifted this last and watched the glove box’s dim light reflect off the tarnished silver pendant, which featured the figure of a man carrying a child on his shoulder, a walking stick in his free hand. Engraved in the silver, encircling the figures, were the words: Behold St. Christopher and Go Your Way in Safety.

  “Take this.”

  She remembered Aaron gasping those words to her in a rush as he’d pressed the necklace between her hands. It had been October 12, 1815, the night Lamar Davenant had tried to murder her entire family.

  She’d been beyond hysterical, naked, shuddering, aching and bloody as Aaron had rushed with her from Lamar’s library. She’d heard music from the second floor of the house, and heavy footsteps stomping rhythmically on the floorboards; a party of some sort had been underway, and indeed, Aaron had been dressed for such an occasion, in a ruffled linen shirt and velvet jacket. He paused long enough to duck into one of the first floor bedrooms and out again with something in his hand, a dress from one of his sisters’ wardrobes. Then, catching her hand, he’d pulled her again in stumbling tow, this time to a small doorway hidden behind the staircase that led down into a secret cellar, and from there, a network of tunnels known as the Beneath that had been originally designed as escape routes in the event of Indian attacks.