by Reinke, Sara
She couldn’t resist him, not when he sounded so pitiful and strained, and let him roll her onto her back with him astride her, her legs encircling his hips. Without missing a beat, he fell into a strident rhythm, pounding into her, his belly slapping against hers. He was trying so hard, but he was exhausted, too; after another twenty minutes by the bedside clock, he was more than just damp with sweat—his skin gleamed with it. His arms were trembling, his breath hitching, his entire body shuddering with exertion.
Brandon, she breathed, because she was starting to feel sore now, too. The friction that had been wondrous earlier was becoming too much for her to bear.
I’m almost there, he pleaded. She meant to tell him he could feed from her, that it would be okay, because it had happened before, with increasing frequency. Two things could quench that awful need in him—sexual release or feeding. Sometimes their lovemaking would end with him unsatisfied, and even though he never complained about it, Lina would feel guilty somehow, as if she was to blame, as if she’d done something wrong, as if her body had somehow failed to satiate him in the way that her blood unerringly could. She had also nearly convinced herself that it had to do with her being human, and about Augustus being right, that she wasn’t Brandon’s pair-bond, not meant to be with him at all.
He needs to be with one of his own kind.
She’d resolved on their trip from Lake Tahoe to do whatever it took—however long, hard or often it took—to please Brandon, but all at once, with her body aching in feeble protest, she worried that it was a promise she wouldn’t ultimately be able to keep. She also felt ridiculously on the verge of bursting into frustrated tears, because all she kept thinking of was Augustus’s voice, his cold and heartless words.
He needs to be with one of his own kind.
At that moment, just as her uncertainties twisted like a braided cord in the pit of her stomach, Brandon climaxed. It rocked him like an electrical jolt; his head snapped back on his neck, his breath sucking to a sharp halt through his teeth. He clutched at her so fiercely, she was surprised he didn’t leave bruises. And when he’d finished, in the wake of that massive, tremendous rush, he collapsed against her, gasping for air, trembling as she drew her arms around his shoulders.
I love you, she thought—as much to reassure herself as him. Those three simple words had always had a talismanic-like quality for them, immediately dissolving any uncertainty or tension that might have come between them. No matter what, Lina resolved to cling to these words, to the wealth of meaning that lay behind them. It was all she had—Augustus Noble be damned.
Brandon raised his head and kissed her. I love you, too.
“I’m sorry about earlier…the things I said out in the yard,” she said aloud, watching as he read her lips, adding to herself, keeping her mind closed: I’m sorry I can’t please you like you always please me. “I just…I didn’t…”
Don’t. Brandon kissed her again, and all at once, she had the suspicion that he’d overheard her any way, that he’d realized her anxiety and insecurities, and to judge by the sudden lift to his brows, his dark eyes round and pinned on hers, was pained by them.
“I don’t want to argue anymore,” she said, blinking against the damnable sting of tears.
Deal, he thought back, making her smile, despite herself.
CHAPTER FOUR
Brandon had a hard time sleeping that night. He’d grown used to having Lina in bed with him, the warmth of her body pressed against his own during the night, and tossed and turned restlessly without her. But it was more than this.
I’m sorry I can’t please you like you always please me, he’d heard her think, her mind clouded with feelings of self-doubt and frustration.
She thinks it’s her fault, something she’s doing wrong, he realized to his heartache and shame. She thinks I don’t want her anymore.
Nothing could have been further from the truth. Brandon would have explained that to her, explained everything to her, except he didn’t understand it himself. I don’t know what’s wrong, Lina, but it’s not you—it’s me. It’s all my fault, and I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to fix myself.
After their lovemaking, she’d stolen back to her mother’s room. He didn’t remember closing his eyes or drifting off to sleep, but when he heard the back door slap noisily, his eyes flew open wide, and he blinked in startled, bleary surprise at a room that was now sun-filled.
Good morning, Jackson signed, having obviously just stepped in from outside. He walked toward the futon with a big, bright, shit-eating grin on his face.
Brandon sat up, groggy. Where have you been? he signed
Had to help Valien with something before he went in to the shop, Jackson replied. Come on. Lina and I are about to go for a run. Why don’t you come with us?
Brandon tapped his wrist in abbreviated signing: What time is it?
Seven-thirty, Jackson replied cheerfully, and with a soundless grumble, Brandon flopped back down, cramming a pillow over his head to block out the early morning glare.
He felt Jackson seize hold of his blanket about a half-second before the big man whipped it back from the bed, leaving Brandon uncovered and exposed. When he next tried to grab the pillow, Brandon caught it, too, and they tussled over it, both of them laughing.
“Come on,” Jackson said again, yanking the pillow out of Brandon’s half-hearted grasp and then whapping him playfully in the head with it. Come running with us.
No, thanks, Brandon signed back, flopping back against the mattress.
Jackson shrugged as if to say “suit yourself.” I’ll let Mama know you’re up, he said. She’s making coffee in the kitchen. I know she’ll be glad to keep you company.
Brandon sat up, eyes wide, the last vestiges of sleepy ill-humor abruptly erased. I’ll get my shoes, he signed.
He was used to running with Lina. She’d roped him into joining her as he’d recovered more and more of his strength since his return from Kentucky and it had become a fond habit for both of them. There was no way he could keep up with her practiced, long-legged stride, but at least he didn’t lumber along like Jackson, he realized with a laugh as they started out that morning, breaking into a steady, loping pace.
Shut up, Jackson signed to him with a half-hearted glare, swatting his hands dismissively. Lina was laughing, too, and when he shot her a glower, she turned around backwards, jogging confidently ahead of them.
“It’s like watching a donkey try to run the Kentucky Derby,” she remarked as she eyed her brother, which only left Brandon staggering sideways with laughter. As he did, his foot slipped off the edge of the pavement and onto the shoulder. They had almost reached a small overpass bridging a concrete canal channel, and it was flanked by steeply sloped lawns on either side. With a soundless yelp, Brandon lost his balance and fell, tumbling ass over elbows for a humiliating moment before coming to a halt, sprawled in the grass.
He blinked up at the sky, his ego more bruised than his body, and Lina quickly came into view, leaning over him. “Are you alright?” she asked, and when he nodded, she added, “Oh, good.” Then she burst out laughing, clapping her hands to her mouth.
You know, the rental car’s in my name, he told her pointedly, telepathically, as she offered her hand, helping him stumble to his feet. And it’s a hell of a long walk back to…
His thought trailed off as he suddenly caught whiff of a strange scent in the breeze. With a frown, he turned his face until the brush of wind hit him headlong, and the smell grew even stronger.
That’s blood. If it had been anything fresh or warm, it would have already triggered his bloodlust, but it hadn’t. Instead, it smelled faint to him, only thinly discernable. Had he not been endowed with the heightened senses that were his Brethren birthright, he might have missed it altogether.
What is it? Lina asked in his mind, and when he didn’t respond, she tugged on his sleeve. He turned, his brow raised, and she signed it now: What’s the matter?
She glanced a
way as Jackson approached. He must have spoken to her from the road, because Brandon watched her reply: “No, he’s not hurt. I don’t think so anyway.” Directly to Brandon, she said, “Are you?”
He shook his head. I’m fine, he signed. Then he walked slowly down the embankment, letting his nose be his guide as he approached the canal. The tide was low, as was the corresponding water level below the concrete floodwalls, leaving muddy scraps of beach exposed along the floor on either side. At the edge of the wall, he paused, looking almost directly down at the hollowed culvert running beneath the street. It was at least six feet in circumference, more than adequately wide enough to handle the water level changes. Like in the canal itself, the culvert was now relatively empty, but the smell seemed to be emanating from just beyond its shadow-draped threshold.
Brandon squatted, bracing himself with one hand while he nimbly hopped down from the floodwall to the ground. It was a good thirteen foot drop, but he landed lightly, effortlessly on his feet.
Brandon! he heard Lina exclaim in his mind and he looked up and over his shoulder in time to see her leaning over the side of the wall, eyes flown wide. What are you doing?
Jackson appeared beside her, looking over the wall, his brows knit with worry. “What’s going on?” he asked aloud.
Stay there, Brandon said to Lina, then for Jackson’s benefit, he signed the admonition, too. There’s something down here. I can smell it. I want to take a closer look.
“Smell something?” Jackson’s frowned deepened as he took an experimental sniff. To Lina, he said, “What is he talking about?”
“I don’t know.” Lina swung her legs around the side of the wall and dropped to the ground, just as Jackson opened her mouth to protest.
I told you to stay up there, Brandon thought to her.
I know you did, she replied, with the unspoken implication being nobody told Lina Jones what to do.
With a slight frown, Brandon stepped closer to her. Lina, climb back up there, he said, cutting a glance up toward the top of the seawall. I didn’t want to freak Jackson out but I smell something down here. Something dead.
It’s probably an animal, she replied. A fish or something, maybe a dog. Alligators like to bury their food in the mud, let it rot a little bit to make it easier to eat. When the tide goes down…
It’s not an animal, he said, cutting her short, watching as her eyes widened in abrupt comprehension. Or a fish, either, Lina. It smells like a dead person.
Her surprise shifted to caution, her brows narrowing somewhat as she glanced past him, sweeping her gaze along the canal bed. Where?
Over there, that culvert, he replied. Look, why don’t you just climb back up there and I’ll—
If this is a crime scene, we need to try and preserve it, Lina interjected in challenge. You have any experience in that department? When he didn’t say anything, just blinked at her in surprise, she walked past him, slapping him lightly in the belly. I didn’t think so.
With a put-upon sigh, Brandon turned and followed as made her way toward the mouth of the culvert.
Lina, he began, stumbling to a halt while she leaned past the opening, trying to look inside.
I’m not going in…not far anyway, she thought back. She didn’t even turn to look back at him, just leaned over all the more. I don’t see anything, but it’s pretty dark in there. You sure it’s a dead person you smell?
Yeah, Brandon said, looking down at his feet, at what he’d tripped over. I’d say I’m pretty positive.
There must have been something odd in his voice, a peculiar tone that made her turn all at once, looking over her shoulder toward him. When she did, she saw what he had discovered in the brackish mud—a human hand, torn loose of its corresponding, if not conspicuously absent arm midway between the wrist and elbow. The putty-colored flesh had all but pulled away, leaving sinewy scraps of dark, discolored meat visible beneath, along with spindly, ivory lengths of bone.
Tell Jackson to throw down his phone. Lina drew back, eyes flown wide. We need to call 9-1-1.
****
“I appreciate you calling this in.” Lina watched as Detective Elías Velasco reached beneath the lapel of his sport coat as he spoke, pulling out his wallet. Flipping back one of the folds, he showed her the shield of his badge.
“No problem.” Lina cut an uneasy glance toward the television news van that had pulled to a stop nearby several moments earlier. It hadn’t taken long for word of the body’s discovery to spread, apparently, because this was the third one to arrive on the scene so far. Crime scene investigators had discovered more of the corpse a few feet inside the culvert, where it had likely been washed during the last high tide. Not much of it remained from the ribcage down—all four limbs, plus the soft meat and organs of its abdomen and pelvis had been ravaged, ripped apart undoubtedly by scavengers. Along with the reporters, neighbors had gathered in the surrounding yards to watch the spectacle as well, clustered together in bathrobes and pajamas, using their hands to shield their eyes from the sun as they watched.
There were too many news cameras around and it made Lina nervous. I’ve had more than my fair share of media coverage the last couple of months, she thought dryly, anxious to get the hell out of there. And then some.
None of the reporters seemed to have realized yet that Lina, Brandon and Jackson weren’t just curious bystanders, like the rest of the loitering neighbors. For the time being, they seemed to be occupied with lining up shots down into the culvert from various vantages beyond the protective circumference of crime scene tape. In the canal, a forensic investigation team was already at work, and the cameras were ready for the proverbial money shot, when the body was removed from the channel.
“Any way we can just talk to you here, tell you what we saw?” she asked Velasco—although she knew his answer would be no. Although no longer an active duty police officer, the procedures and policies remained fresh in Lina’s mind. “It wasn’t much,” she added.
He smiled, if not feeling truly sympathetic toward her, then at least faking it well. He was a handsome man, no more than thirty years old, with dark eyes and bronze-colored skin, his coal black hair swept casually, if not messily back off his brow. “Afraid not. I’ll need you to come in to my office later so we can get your statements. How about this afternoon? Maybe one o’clock?”
“Sure,” she said, shoulders hunched in begrudging resignation. “Are we free to go for now, then?”
Velasco gave a slight shrug. “I’ve got nothing else.” He started to turn around, then paused and glanced at her, his brow arched. “By the way, dispatch told me when you called this in, you reported a 10-54.”
A 10-54 was the standard report of a possible dead body on the scene. She’d said this by reflex; in fact, hadn’t even realized she’d done so until Velasco pointed it out.
“You know radio calls?” he asked.
“Uh,” Caught off guard, Lina fidgeted uneasily, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Yeah. I used to be a cop.”
“Really?” His brow raised all the more. “Where?”
“No place local.” She couldn’t help but notice the way he’d fixed his gaze on her, his eyes sharp. All at once, she had a strange notion that he might not be as small-town or Barney Fife a police detective as she might have otherwise suspected. “It wasn’t right for me. So anyway, we can go now, you said?”
Again, Velasco shrugged keeping his tone light but still, his gaze direct and steady. “Fine by me. See you this afternoon.”
Offering her a nod, then another to Brandon and Jackson, who stood behind her, he then turned and walked away without as much as a backwards glance.
Letting loose a long breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding, Lina turned around, grabbing her brother by one arm and Brandon by the other, wheeling them both around in tow. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” she said, already on the move.
****
I don’t like that guy, Jackson signed as they walked bac
k toward Latisha’s bungalow, his face set in a disagreeable scowl.
Who? Brandon asked.
That chota, he said, then by way of translation, since Brandon didn’t understand the Spanish term, he said, That cop. Again, the corners of Jackson’s mouth turned down, as if he’d taken a bite from a shit sandwich or something. V-E-L-A-S-C-O.
Jackson and Lina had taken turns serving as translator between the Brandon and the police detective. And while Velasco had seemed nice enough to Brandon, at least outwardly, anyway, there was something about him—and the authority his title represented—that had left Brandon every bit as unnerved as he’d once felt in Augustus’s presence at the great house in Kentucky. Lina had explained that they would have to go into town later on that afternoon to give official statements to the police, a prospect Brandon wasn’t looking forward to. Apparently Jackson wasn’t, either.
He’s just doing his job, Lina signed.
He’s an asshole, Jackson signed back, and for the life of him, Brandon couldn’t figure out why he’d feel so hostile toward the young detective. It was clear from Lina’s puzzled expression that she couldn’t, either.
We won’t say anything to Mama about this, she signed. We’ll just tell her we need to run some errands today—go to that bike shop you’ve been working at, or something, Jackie.
The whole incident had made her anxious, but not for the same reasons as Brandon. She’d only just managed to be cleared of any criminal charges in a trio of homicides—and only just now making headway in likewise clearing her name from her mother’s shit list because of this. It wouldn’t take much to crush the tenuous progress she and Latisha had made in reconnecting since their arrival the day before, and given his own experience with the woman to date, Brandon suspected finding a dead body in the canal would, in all likelihood, do the trick.
As they approached, Brandon could see people in the driveway next door to Latisha’s house, where Valien Cadana and his grandmother lived. One of them was Valien himself; he sat astride a gleaming black motorcycle similar in streamlined silhouette to Jackson’s. Of his companions from the day before, Lopito and Téo, there was no sign, but a young woman stood nearby, her long, dark hair fluttering in the breeze.
