DARK VENGEANCE, Part One

by Reinke, Sara

  Over her shoulder, he watched her speedometer fly—forty-five miles an hour, fifty-five, sixty-five. As they blew through an intersection—and past Jackson and Taya—Pilar was clocking eighty miles per hour and counting.

  Holy shit! he cried as she darted in and out of traffic. Right-of-way apparently had no meaning to Pilar. Ditto for traffic signs or double yellow lines. She passed on the left, the right, speeding into the paths of oncoming cars, then out again, through red lights and crosswalks, the wind buffeting them headlong.

  Jesus fucking Christ! he yelled when she whipped past a delivery truck so closely, he felt the vibration of its side-view mirror as it winged within a hair of his helmet. When at last she stopped, seeming to have realized finally that was what a red light was for, he slid abruptly forward and against her back.

  What are you trying to do—kill us both? he screamed at her with his mind.

  She glanced over her shoulder at him as the light turned green and she dropped the motorcycle into gear, speeding forward. Not both, no.

  ****

  Not much could have distracted Brandon from the sheer terror of that motorcycle ride, but the sight of the ocean upon their arrival did the trick. Massive, alien and wondrous to him, he stared at in dumbstruck awe at the pristine slate of blue-green water broken by foam-capped waves, marked by the strong, metallic scent of salt.

  He’d seen pictures of the ocean in books and magazine, watched it in movies where it had served as scenery or backdrop, but nothing had prepared him for the immense vastness of it, the sheer and impressive magnitude of its breadth. Looking toward the distant horizon was like gazing into eternity; he could only imagine how far out his eye could travel along that sparkling cerulean plane, distinguishable from the sky by only the slightest differentiation in hues.

  Now that they’d arrived, he could understand why Jackson had wanted to get there early. The sun was now on the rise, well above the horizon, and already, the stretch of white, velveteen beach was fairly crowded with tourists. Men, women and children ducked and danced along the lip of the tide, while further out, where the waves crested higher, he could see people surfing, or zipping along on jet skis.

  Come on, Pilar said, leading the way down from the sand-dusted boardwalk to the beach.

  He hesitated, uncertain. Shouldn’t we wait for Jackson and Taya?

  She turned to look at him, her expression impatient and sorely taxed. I told you. Jackson rides like an old lady. He’ll be another ten minutes at least.

  He watched her walk away, torn with momentary indecision. The beach was crowded enough for him to feel justified in his concern that Jackson and Taya might not be able to find them. But at the same time, Pilar was his ride—if only begrudgingly so—and by that token alone, losing track of her seemed to be the least prudent choice.

  Hunching his shoulders in miserable resignation, Brandon trudged after her. When she found what she considered to be a prime patch of ocean-front real estate, she came to a halt. She’d carried a small bag with her, and opened it wordlessly, fishing out a colorful beach towel which she then snapped between her hands to unfurl. She faced him as she did this, the breeze off the water rustling her hair, sending it trailing over her left shoulder in sudden, fluttering waves.

  Look, I’m sorry, she said at length, glancing up at him. About being so shitty with you back at the shop. It’s just… Huffing out her cheeks, she heaved a tremendous sigh. I don’t like being tricked. This isn’t your fault, and I know it. So I’m sorry I snapped at you.

  He wasn’t sure which surprised him more, her candor or the fact she was actually being civil to him. It’s okay, he said. Then, since he had her attention—not to mention that she was in somewhat of an improved mood—he added, I’m sorry, too, for what happened last night. With your boyfriend, Téo, I mean. I didn’t…

  She shot him a glare. “I told you before. Téo’s not my boyfriend.”

  Sorry. Brandon would have groaned aloud had he been able, realizing he’d inadvertently undone all of the tentative progress only just made. Then, after a hesitant moment, he cocked his head to draw her attention. Does he know that?

  For the first time since they’d left the garage, she managed a laugh. Me saca de quicio. When he shook his head, not understanding, she said, It means he drives me crazy. He’s been in love with me for ages. And now he’s pissed off that you’re around, because he knows he’s out of contention.

  Bewildered, Brandon said, For what?

  She frowned, bringing the blade of her hand up to her brow to shield her eyes. You really don’t know, do you? Because he only shook his head, at a loss, she sighed, exasperated. You’re my pareja, she said. My match. My mate.

  With that, Pilar turned and began to walk toward the water. Brandon watched her go in stricken surprise, remembering what Augustus had told him; how the feelings he’d had toward Pilar had been the same as when Augustus had first met Brandon’s grandmother Eleanor.

  Wait a minute. Brandon fell in step, first behind then alongside her. When she didn’t slow down at all, he caught her elbow, forcing her to look at him. What’s happening to me whenever you’re around—you can feel it too?

  He didn’t know if this more relieved or mortified him, but at least in that moment, he didn’t feel like he was going completely insane. Not all by myself, anyway.

  Your whole body tingling? she asked. Thoughts filling your mind—touching each other, tasting each other, feeling you inside of me, filling me…

  She said this so candidly—with such unabashed bluntness, he stumbled to a surprise halt. Uh, yeah, he said, and now he could feel his cheeks burning brightly. That.

  With a stern glare, she flapped her arm, breaking away from his grasp. “Ni borracho,” she said. Forget it. “I’m in love with someone else. I wouldn’t do that to Elías, wouldn’t hurt him like that…not for the world.”

  Her eyes had softened, growing somewhat forlorn as she spoke, and Brandon realized she was as conflicted and confused as he was by what was happening.

  Hey, I am, too, he said, holding up his hands in concession. In love with someone else, I mean.

  I know, Pilar said, and his brows raised in new surprise. Jackie’s sister, Lina. I saw you together the other night, out on their lanai.

  He felt fresh new humiliated color stoke in his cheeks. What?

  I snuck out to go see Elías and had to cut through the back yard.

  Great, Brandon thought to himself. Lina’s mom heard us and Pilar had a front row seat. Maybe next time, we should just charge admission.

  Look, he said to Pilar. I don’t want to hurt Lina, either. I love her—God, with all my heart—but it’s like there’s something inside of me, something I can’t fight or resist whenever I’m around you. I’m not happy about it, trust me. Hell, I’m going crazy from it! How do I make it stop?

  You don’t, she replied simply, then she turned and waded out into the surf.

  What? Plodding clumsily through the water, he followed her. Wait a minute. What do you mean, I don’t?

  She turned, the water above her knees now, waves slapping against her calves as they rolled inland. I mean you don’t make it stop. Not unless we sleep together.

  He staggered to a halt; a wave surged up, hitting him in the chest, spraying his face.

  My mother says that pretty soon, it’s going to be all we think about, either of us, Pilar continued. You think you’re going crazy now, give it another week or more. It’s like a fever—once it gets inside of you, it doesn’t stop burning. It eats you up inside and the longer you stay here, close to me, the worse it’s going to get.

  What are you saying? he asked, floundering forward, catching her by the arm.

  You have to leave, Brandon, Pilar told him. You have to get as far away from me as you can—as soon as you can.

  ****

  So what do you think of Pilar? Jackson asked Brandon several hours later.

  Brandon glanced over his shoulder toward Pilar and Taya, watching as th
ey giggled together. After spending most of the morning on the beach, the four had followed the boardwalk to a small hamburger stand for lunch. While Taya and Pilar stood at a nearby condiment station, piling tomatoes, lettuce and slices of avocado onto their burgers, Jackson and Brandon had staked out a picnic table beneath the shade of a wide-brimmed umbrella.

  On more than one occasion that afternoon, despite his best attempts to the contrary—his damndest efforts to put as much space between himself and Pilar as possible—Brandon had still been drawn to her. In her bikini, drenched as she’d bobbed in the surf, she’d been damn near irresistible to him, holding his gaze, capturing his attention, leaving him spellbound, helpless and miserable all day.

  I think she’s a great girl, he signed to Jackson, adding quickly, And that she’s in love with someone already. She told me all about him.

  Jackson frowned as if he’d just bitten into a lemon wedge. That guy’s a prick, Brandon, he signed. He’s not right for her.

  Brandon laughed. But I am?

  I think so, yeah, Jackson said.

  That’s crazy. I only met her yesterday. Brandon felt both touched by and admittedly annoyed with Jackson’s dogged persistence. Because, goddamn it, he couldn’t be right for Pilar. He didn’t know her. Outside of the incessant need to peel her clothes off and fuck her, he didn’t know a damn thing about the woman, and had no intention of doing so—now, later or otherwise.

  You guys have more in common than you know, Jackson said. Did you know her dad died last year?

  Valien had mentioned something about this, about their father being murdered, in fact, but it hadn’t quite clicked with Brandon until that moment.

  She saw the whole thing, Jackson added. Some guys came into the bike shop and shot him. She hid under a desk and watched. There was nothing she could do.

  Jesus, Brandon signed. In his own mind, his father’s death had been murder, too. Even though Sebastian had pulled the handgun trigger himself and taken his life, he’d been coerced into doing so by a sadistic and masterful manipulator: Allistair Davenant.

  She won’t talk to anyone about it, Jackson continued. And I know Valien’s been worried about her. Maybe you could say something…?

  Like what? Brandon’s hand gestures grew sharp and swift with aggravation. It’s not some goddamn fraternity, you know, like your dad dies and you win some automatic lifetime membership.

  He regretted the angry words as soon as he’d signed them, and blinked at his friend in aghast. I’m sorry, he said, tracing a circle above his heart with his fist. He didn’t know why he still felt so defensive when the matter came to Sebastian. Maybe it was because Lina kept bringing it up, however indirectly, by criticizing his burgeoning relationship with his grandfather.

  How can you think that Augustus Noble is going to somehow take your father’s place? she’d asked him. Why the hell would you want that?

  I’m sorry, he said again, but Jackson shook his head.

  No, you’re right, he signed. I don’t know what it’s like…how you must feel. I shouldn’t have…

  He’d started to sit against the picnic bench, but immediately jumped up now, knocking into the table and nearly toppling the whole thing. His face had twisted, his mouth open as he’d yelped, and all at once, Brandon caught a sudden whiff of a thick, coppery, unmistakable smell—blood.

  “Are you alright?” Taya came running over to them, her eyes flown wide with concern.

  Jackson cradled his right hand against his left. “Fine,” he said with a scowling wince. “I just cut myself. There’s a loose nail on that bench.”

  “Let me see.” Taya tugged on his wrist, and when he insisted he was okay, she shot him a look that apparently spoke volumes. Relenting with a sigh, Jackson held out his hand, and Brandon saw a ragged slash across his palm. The nail had gouged deeply enough to be more than a glancing blow; already the thin seam of blood he’d first smelled had spread, and now dribbled down his wrist in ever-widening rivulets.

  Oh, shit.

  Even though Jackson had lived for almost ten years on the Noble family farm in Kentucky, he had no idea about the existence of the Brethren, or the truth about their species. Somehow Brandon or his father had always managed to keep Jackson secreted from it, safe from the horrific truth.

  But all at once, it occurred to Brandon that it had been weeks since he’d last fed, long enough for that steadily strengthening aroma of blood to the bloodlust in him. It might have been better if he’d had blood more recently, and if his senses—his most primal and basic of Brethren instincts—weren’t already on hyperactive overdrive since meeting Pilar. It might have been better if he’d still been on the Wellbutrin, if he hadn’t heeded Augustus’s advice and flushed the entire month-long supply of the pills Tristan had procured for him down the commode. It might have played out differently under a thousand different circumstances, but as piss rot luck would have it, at the sight and smell of Jackson’s blood, the bloodlust within Brandon surged, unbidden, unwelcome—and utterly unexpected.

  He was acutely aware of the quality of light around him growing brighter, the sunlight more dazzling as his pupils reflexively widened, and he felt a rush of warmth in his gums, a sudden flood of saliva in his mouth.

  Oh, shit, he thought again, shying back. I have to get out of here—right fucking now!

  To compound his horror, Jackson looked up at him. Although Brandon wasn’t sure the change in his eyes was apparent yet, or the swelling as his canine teeth began to emerge, he still backpedaled in panic.

  Spinning around, Brandon nearly stumbled headlong over another picnic table. The corner caught him low in the gut, doubling him over, leaving him gasping for breath. Then, staggering, he floundered for the nearest possible escape—a small public bathroom building located next door. He slammed the door to the men’s room shut behind him, but to his dismay, found the deadbolt wouldn’t latch. Frantic, he pawed at it, turning it uselessly back and forth.

  It was a single-commode facility, and there were no stalls, no other doors, and only a tiny window cut into the cinderblocks, thick glass panes reinforced with a heavy steel screen set too high on the wall for him to even hope to reach. After several desperate, futile attempts to leap up and try, he caught sight of himself in the dingy mirror above the sink and froze. His eyes were almost fully blackened, and his mouth hung unconsciously ajar, accommodating his dropping canine teeth.

  This can’t be happening, he thought in dismay. Jesus Christ, this can’t be happening to me.

  He reached for his pocket, for his cell phone so he could text Lina, let her know he was in trouble, even though there was nothing on earth she could do to stop this or salvage it. Then he froze, eyes wide, realizing he could sense Jackson telepathically as he walked straight toward the other side of the door, no more than five feet away.

  Shit! he thought, but before he could rush forward again and try to brace the door, hold it shut, it swung open as Jackson poked his head into the bathroom.

  Shit, shit, shit! Brandon scrambled backwards in horror, clapping his hands over his mouth. Oh, God, this cannot fucking be happening!

  Trying to hide his eyes from Jackson’s notice, as idiotic as it sounded, Brandon wheeled about in a clumsy semi-circle, just as he saw his friend say his name, his brows lifted with worry: “Brandon?”

  Please go away, he thought, brows furrowed. He didn’t know if he was willing this to Jackson or to the bloodlust, but either way, he clamped his eyes shut and thought it again and again, mantra-like. Please go away, please God, please don’t see me like this…

  He felt Jackson’s hand fall gently against his shoulder, and he tried to shrug him away. Had he been able to, he would have uttered a miserable cry aloud. Again, Jackson touched him, and again, Brandon shrank away, shaking his head furiously, shoving one hand behind him, a feeble but fervent barrier, a wordless warning: Please God, just leave me alone!

  Jackson caught his shoulder again, more firmly this time, and before Brandon could forc
ibly jerk himself loose, he turned him around to face him.

  No, Brandon thought again as he felt Jackson took him gently by the hand, trying to pull his fingers away from his mouth. He shook his head, pleading without opening his eyes. Oh, please don’t, Jackson. Please.

  His hand slipped, his mouth—and fangs—revealed, and with a horrified gasp, he floundered backwards, knocking into the sink basin and tripping over his own feet. He fell down on his ass, then scuttled backwards, pressing himself into a corner. Tangling his hands in his hair, he drew his knees toward his chest and tried to hide, again just as he always had as a child when he’d cowered from Augustus’s wrath or Caine’s relentless bullying. He tried to make himself small, feeling stricken and childlike and vulnerably exposed, and wishing somehow he could slip through the mortar and disappear.

  Aware of his fright and dismay, Jackson made no further move to approach. Instead he knelt on the floor and waited until at last, Brandon relented and risked a peek in his direction.

  “It’s alright,” Jackson told him with a gentle smile—which was ridiculous, of course, because there was no way in hell Jackson—or any other sane person, for that matter—could find anything remotely alright about Brandon’s appearance. He looked terrifying; monstrous even to himself, and he knew it, just like he knew there would be no way to explain it to his friend.

  Jackson scooted toward him, extending his hand to touch Brandon’s cheek.

  Please don’t. Brandon ducked his head again, trembling with shame and fright—afraid that Jackson would hate him for what he really was, for having kept it a secret from him for all of that time.

  I’m sorry, he signed, tracing circles around his heart with his fist. Please don’t look at me, Jackie. I don’t want you to see me this way…please…

  He felt Jackson’s fingers—warm, strong, kind—catch his own. Because Brandon still wouldn’t look up, Jackson turned his hand over, finger-spelled against his palm, a game they had often played together in his childhood back on the farm. It’s alright, he spelled to Brandon, and when Brandon shook his head—no, it’s not, you don’t understand—he signed it again. It’s OK.