by Reinke, Sara
He’d fought the bloodlust for years now with the help of the medication. Wellbutrin, the label read. Bupropion, 150 milligrams. Take one tablet by mouth twice daily.
It was an antidepressant, one typically prescribed to humans for use in smoking cessation. Quite by luck, Brandon had discovered the pills also curbed another incessant need—that of a Brethren for blood. Since his late adolescence, he’d relied on the Wellbutrin to keep himself under control, but ever since he’d fed from Lina, he’d found even with the pills, the bloodlust grew harder and harder to repress. At least, as far as a lust for her blood was concerned.
When asking Rene about it had proven futile, Brandon had next turned to his grandfather.
“She’s human—your natural prey,” Augustus had replied, one brow arched slightly higher than the other, as if to say: What did you think was going to happen?
Good old Augustus, Brandon thought. To his credit, his grandfather hadn’t discouraged or disparaged Brandon’s relationship with Lina, even though he was clearly at a loss to understand it. You can take the Alpha male out of the wolf pack, but you can’t as easily take the wolf out of the Alpha.
For a long moment, he stared at the pill in his hand, damning the fact that his gums still ached, that he could still feel the tips of his canine teeth; they’d dropped ever so slightly from recessed grooves in his upper palate. The further in the throes of the bloodlust he became, the more they’d descend until they’d dropped to their full striking lengths. He wanted to take the medicine. More than anything, he wanted to shove a handful of the tablets down his throat to quell that insatiable desire in him. But instead, with a heavy sigh, he turned and dropped it into the toilet, then upended the entire plastic bottle—thirty days’ worth of Wellbutrin down the drain with a single flush.
Stop taking those pills. His grandfather had sent him a text message yesterday. Since the death of Brandon’s father, things between Brandon and Augustus had changed, if not becoming more affectionate, then at least more mutually respectful. But in that moment, as he’d read that text, Brandon’s skin had crawled, a shiver racing through him, the way it always had when he’d lived at the great house under his grandfather’s icy, stony, seeming disapproval.
What’s going on? Brandon had texted back, as casual as possible, because by all rights Augustus shouldn’t have known about the Wellbutrin at all. No one did, except for Lina, Rene and Rene’s younger brother, Tristan Morin, who was a physician and had prescribed for Brandon the supply he’d just sent spiraling down the commode. That Augustus knew about the medication—and undoubtedly Brandon’s reasons for taking it—had left him with a twisted, anxious knot in his gut.
The knot had remained upon Augustus’s reply, although not for the same reasons it had formed. One of the Davenants attacked Tristan, he’d replied. They must have followed us from Kentucky. They’ve learned to feed from other Brethren and use the powers they gain from it.
Shit, Brandon had thought. Lina had been driving at the time, and he’d struggled not to let his sudden, bright alarm show in his face. She’d have noticed it for sure, and he hadn’t wanted to frighten her. He hadn’t told her about the message since then, either, for exactly the same reason.
Is Tristan okay? he asked Augustus. Tristan was a skilled and powerful telepath. If one of the Davenants had been able to get the jump on him, by all rights, he should have been able to defend himself easily.
I don’t know, Augustus had replied, sending a fresh new chill through him. It’s too early yet to tell. His injuries were severe. Then, after a moment of dead air between them, came the message: He’d been taking Wellbutrin. It dampened his powers, made him vulnerable. Helpless against them.
Shit, Brandon had thought again, stricken. There was only one reason Tristan would have been taking Wellbutrin—to dampen the bloodlust. Tristan worked in close, regular contact with a human woman named Karen Pierce, and Brandon suspected that he might have found an attraction to her—both physical and from the bloodlust—to be a distraction. And there was only one reason Tristan would have tried taking medicine to repress his Brethren nature—because Brandon had suggested it to him.
I told him why I wanted them, he’d realized. He must have decided to try it, too. Oh, Jesus, it’s my fault.
If you’re taking those pills, stop, Augustus had texted. I don’t know how many other Davenants might have followed. I would like you to be alert and ready just in case.
It had been a surprising admittance, the closest to fondness Brandon had ever received from his grandfather. With a smile, he’d texted back: Thank you. I will.
Because his teeth were still dropping, his dick still throbbing, his nose still all-too keenly aware of the smell of Lina’s blood, even through the closed bathroom door—and he no longer had the Wellbutrin to depend on for controlling it—Brandon turned to the shower and cranked the cold water faucet open full blast. Shoving his sweat pants down, kicking them aside, he stepped beneath the frigid spray. It shocked the breath from him, but more importantly, it shocked both his erection and the bloodlust away, too. For a long, excruciating moment, he forced himself to stand there and endure it, until the last inklings of that nagging, incessant need had abandoned him. Only then did he regulate the water to a more tolerable temperature, closing his eyes and heaving a long, shuddering sigh as it pelted against the cap of his head.
****
From the recesses of sleep, Lina heard the shower running. It wasn’t until it cut off, the white, static-like sound of water that had nearly lulled her from a light doze back into deeper sleep abruptly ending, that she opened her eyes, blinking sleepily.
Disorientation lasted little more than a few seconds, long enough for her to frown before getting her bearings. The motel room, she remembered, glancing at the bedside clock. Her frowned deepened as she realized the time. We should’ve been back on the road, on the way to Mom’s, hours ago.
After the Great Augustus Debate in California with Brandon, as she’d come to consider it, he’d suggested the trip.
I know you miss your mom, he’d signed, and God, hadn’t that been the truth. It had been months since Lina had last seen either her mother, Latisha, or older brother Jackson, and the realization that she’d see them again very soon—before the end of that very day, in fact—was motivation enough to shove the blankets away and sit up in bed.
Her hair drooped in her face in a messy tangle, and she mopped it back with her hands as she stumbled to her feet. The bathroom door was closed, thin tendrils of steam leaking out from beneath its bottom edge. From the other side, she could hear Brandon moving, quiet rustles as he snapped a towel, drying himself; subtle sounds it still made her somewhat sad to realize he was utterly unaware of.
Six months earlier, Latisha had been diagnosed with stage two, ER-positive infiltrative ductal carcinoma—breast cancer that had spread to nearby lymph nodes. She’d undergone a modified radical mastectomy, followed by adjuvant chemotherapy treatments that had lasted until just recently. Although Lina had been able to be with Latisha for the surgery, her duties as a police officer had demanded she return home sooner than she would have liked. Because she’d met Brandon shortly thereafter, and thus, gotten herself involved in the clusterfuck that was his family, she’d been on the run ever since, unable to risk doing more than speak with her mother on fleeting, all-too-infrequent occasions by phone.
Let’s go to Florida, Brandon had suggested. We leave this week, if you want—tomorrow, even.
She’d thought he was playing, but after a moment, had felt a glimmer of hope, had dared to hesitantly smile. “Really?” she’d asked, and when he’d nodded, she’d uttered a happy little cry and darted into his arms, hugging him fiercely.
They’d first planned on flying to Florida, but when their flight had been postponed due to mechanical issues with the plane, Brandon had proposed they rent a car and make a driving trip out of it. That way I’ll at least get a couple of extra days to have you to myself, he’d remarked, kissi
ng her lightly as they’d stood at the airport terminal. Come on…what do you say?
The bathroom door opened, letting out a sudden cloud of steam. Brandon, a towel wrapped around his waist while he used another to mop at his wet hair, blinked at her in surprise.
Good morning, he signed, extending his right hand, then drawing it up to his shoulder.
“Good morning.” She wanted to let the previous night’s bygones between them be bygones, and sidled up to him, draping her arms around his neck and kissing him softly, leisurely. “Why’d you let me stay in bed so late? We need to get going.”
You’re on vacation, he reminded her with a smile. You get to sleep in.
“Vacation doesn’t start until we’re officially over the Florida state line,” she said, grabbing the front of his towel, where he’d tucked one end loosely beneath the fold of another to secure it around his hips. As she gave a little tug, making him stagger toward her, the towel came undone, falling away. She felt herself instantly respond to the sight of him, naked and exposed. She hadn’t worn panties to bed, and was all at once grateful for this, as dim warmth stoked pleasantly between her thighs. To judge by Brandon’s reaction—undoubtedly in response to the sudden hammering pace of her heartbeat—he was grateful for it, too.
“Of course, maybe we could start it early, just this once,” Lina murmured, as his eyes began to darken with need, the length of him swelling out in growing arousal. She smiled as she spoke, mischievous, and he laughed silently.
Just this once, he agreed, hooking her by the waist and pulling her into him.
****
After Lina showered and dressed, they walked across the motel parking lot to the neighboring truck stop café. Inside, they found a booth in the far corner, its vinyl bench seats well-worn in places, cracked or torn in others. The aroma of brewing coffee had greeted them from the moment of their arrival, and Lina sat, nearly drooling, as their waitress filled a white ceramic mug to near overflowing for her.
“Y’all need a few minutes?” the waitress asked, her drawl so thick, the words seemed to drape lazily like Spanish moss from her tongue.
“Yes, please,” Lina replied, while Brandon, who’d struggled to read her lips—judging by the slight cleft between his brows indicating concentration as she’d spoken—nodded.
As the waitress walked away, Lina noticed a young kid, maybe eighteen years old, tops, bussing dirty dishes from a nearby table. He kept shooting glances in their direction, cutting his eyes between Lina and Brandon. It wasn’t the first time this had happened along their trip, and undoubtedly wouldn’t be the last. After all, they were in the deep South, not only the one-time heart of the Confederacy, but the birthplace of the Ku Klux Klan. Never mind that desegregation had occurred more than two decades earlier—longer than Brandon had even been alive. A black woman traveling with a white man still raised the occasional disapproving eyebrow.
All at once, the bus boy’s plastic bin of dishes flipped up, as if slapped from underneath by an invisible hand. With a squawk, he danced backwards as plates crashed to the floor, shattering, and silverware went skittering in all directions.
He’s an asshole, Brandon said, and when she looked back, she realized he’d followed her gaze. His brows were furrowed now, not in concentration, but anger.
Did you do that? she whispered in her mind, even though no one could possibly overhear. Did you knock over that bin?
He shrugged once, then pretended to be absorbed in the menu.
All Brethren were born with inherent telepathic abilities, such as the ones they were using at the moment to communicate. But a select few—those who had fed not from humans, but from each other—had developed heightened mental abilities along these lines, including telekinesis, the ability to move objects with their minds. Some of them, Rene’s distant family, the Morins, could wield this ability with formidable and remarkable ease. To Brandon, it was still something newly discovered, and relatively unpracticed. Although, in that moment, Lina had to admit, she was pretty impressed with it.
After they’d placed their orders for breakfast, Lina sipped carefully on her coffee while Brandon checked the map he’d spread on the table between them, marking their progress and gauging how much further they had to go.
Looks like it’s about another three hundred miles, give or take, he signed, first holding up his forefingers and thumb—three—and then cupping his hand into the shape of the letter C—hundred. He checked his watch, then signed again. It’s almost nine o’clock. That means we can probably be at your mom’s house sometime midafternoon.
“Great,” she said, grateful that he couldn’t hear the feigned enthusiasm in her voice. “I’ll send Jackie a text to let him know.”
Squirming in her seat, she set her coffee mug down, tapping at it with her fingernails. Now’s just as good a time as any, she told herself, because there’d been something she wanted to bring up ever since they’d left California.
“Brandon,” she began, but because he’d looked back down, folding the map again, he didn’t respond. She reached out, touching his hand lightly, drawing his gaze. “Hey. Speaking of Jackson…can I ask you a favor?”
He raised his brow, quizzical, then shrugged and nodded simultaneously: Sure. What’s up?
“It’s just…” Her voice faltered. How the hell to do this? she wondered, then raised her hands to sign. Not for the first time in her life, she was grateful and glad for the privacy it brought to their conversation.
Can we wait to tell Jackie and Mom about this? she signed, pointing between the two of them. About us, I mean?
He blinked, visibly caught off guard and she winced inwardly.
You know how Jackie gets, she signed quickly. You know he’s going to freak out when he finds out. You’re like a little brother to him. He feels like he practically raised you for those years he was at the farm. And when he found out you’d left Kentucky, he asked me to take care of you.
His brow arched again, the corner of his mouth hooking wryly and she pretended to frown.
Shut up, she signed, making him laugh. I’m serious, Brandon. He’s going to be pissed at me.
You didn’t do anything wrong, he signed, his expression growing solemn again, nearly mournful. Neither of us did.
Yeah, but that’s not how Jackie’s going to look at it, she replied. Not at first, anyway. Reaching out, she caught his hand again. “I want him to know,” she said aloud. “I’m going to tell him, Brandon, I promise—him and Mom both. But I just…” With a sigh, she let her shoulders sag, then stared at him, pleading. “I need to tell them in my own time, okay? Please.”
She was afraid he’d be hurt, that her request would make him think she was ashamed of him somehow, or their relationship—which she wasn’t—and glanced up, hopeful, when he squeezed her fingers gently. He smiled at her, then drew her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles lightly.
Of course, Lina, he thought to her. I understand. It’s okay.
In that moment, she could have scrambled across the table between them and taken him right there in the diner, not because she’d been seized with lust, but because in that moment, she remembered exactly why she’d fallen in love with Brandon in the first place.
He held up his free hand to her, his third and fourth fingers folded down so that only his pinkie, index and thumb remained extended. It was an abbreviated sign, a simple gesture that meant I love you.
CHAPTER TWO
“Mama!”
Brandon hadn’t even brought the car to a complete stop beside the small, lemon-yellow bungalow before Lina was reaching for her seatbelt, her mouth stretched in a wide, happy grin. He’d barely put it in park, and she’d flung her door open wide, bounding out into the bright, midafternoon sunshine.
A woman on the front porch—presumably Latisha Jones—had watched them pull into the driveway, rising slowly to her feet from a lounge chair, and setting aside what looked like a glass of lemonade. Tall and thin like her daughter, she wore a crisp pair
of white capris with a sleeveless blouse that nearly matched the sunny shade of her house’s stucco façade. A multicolored scarf had been wrapped around her head, turban-like. Barefooted and smiling, she stepped down from the porch and hurried toward Lina, arms outstretched.
“Lina!” she exclaimed, then the two of them fell together, laughing.
Brandon turned the engine off, but remained rooted in place behind the wheel for a long, uncertain moment. He had a strange feeling, a peculiar sensation like the hairs along the nape of his neck were prickling, and it had nothing to do with the fact that the car’s airconditioner was no longer on.
When Brethren vampires were in each other’s proximity, they could sense it telepathically. Although the electrical tingling wasn’t exactly the same, it was damn near close—and by all rights, he should have been hundreds of miles from any other Brethren, and thus unable to detect them.
I don’t know how many other Davenants might have followed, Augustus had warned in his text message. I would like you to be alert and ready just in case.
“Come on and meet Brandon,” he saw Lina say as she turned, keeping one arm around Latisha and motioning toward the car with her free hand, beckoning to him.
He gave his head a little shake. I’m imagining things, he told himself. There’s no way one of the Davenants could have followed us here, not all of the way from California, and I’d only just now be sensing it.
Latisha was a slender woman, but as Brandon stepped out of the car and turned around to face her, he felt for all of the world as intimated as he had the first time he’d met her strapping bear of a son, Jackson. Even though she smiled at him, her eyes remained cool and scrutinizing as she offered her hand to him in greeting.
“It’s nice to meet you, Brandon,” she said. “I’ve heard a lot about you over the years.”
Jackson had been deaf since his adolescence, and both Lina and Latisha were comfortable and accustomed interacting with someone hearing impaired, as evidenced by the fact that Latisha faced him directly as she spoke and held his gaze.
