by Reinke, Sara
“I can sense it,” he said again, returning his attention to the phone. “Yeah, she had the ledger, too. How the hell do I know if all the records are there? I haven’t had a chance to check yet.”
He prattled on, telling Monica about the deal to follow Brandon. Tessa could hear bits and pieces of the woman’s end of the conversation whenever her voice would raise, growing sharp or imperative, like now. She couldn’t make out the words exactly, but that tone told her plenty—Monica didn’t think it was a good idea.
“Look, do you want this or not?” Martin snapped finally, nearly shouting into the phone. “Jesus Christ, do you want to keep the status quo for goddamn chump change or do you want to be the first wife of the dominant house? Isn’t that what you’re always fucking harping on me about?”
The status quo. Tessa thought about the mysterious ledger she’d taken from him, the invoices, statements and three million dollars in payments to a company called Broughman and Associates. And hadn’t he just said something a few minutes ago to Monica about that? “You have a credit card for the Broughman account if something comes up. Use it,” he’d told her.
Why would Martin have a credit card in that company’s name? she wondered. Is he working for them or something?
It didn’t make sense. Martin worked as a mid-level accounting manager for Bloodhorse Distillery, but like any other Brethren, his contact with the human world beyond this scope was strictly prohibited. And even though all of the Brethren had contributed to their considerable wealth over the centuries, control of it rested solely in the hands of the dominant clan and its Elder. While that changed as male heirs were born or died, at the moment, it meant that the Brethren’s fortune belonged, for all practical purposes, to Tessa’s grandfather.
Martin was paid a stipend for his work for the distillery, at least on paper, but he had no need for money outside of this. The Elders, with Augustus Noble’s approval, provided him with everything he needed—clothes, food, shelter, cars, even the disgusting cigarettes he smoked so manically.
“I don’t trust the stupid bitch, either,” Martin said. Aside from the blow he’d just delivered to her, he seemed to have forgotten Tessa was even in the car with him. He ranted and raved furiously on the phone, and she watched in undisguised alarm as the speedometer on the Jaguar edged over the ninety-miles-per-hour line. “Not for one minute. But what choice do we have? Do you want that son of a bitch Augustus Noble to find Brandon first?”
Martin balanced the phone against his left shoulder again and fished around in his sport coat pocket, pulling out a rumpled pack of Marlboro Reds. He shook one loose, popping it butt-first through the opened end, and slipped it between his teeth. She held tightly to the door handle as he then dug about for a lighter, and the car—now pushing the century mark speed-wise—meandered recklessly back and forth between lanes.
“Because if he does, Monica, you can kiss all of our goddamn dreams of dominance good-bye,” he said into the phone, lisping around the cigarette butt as he fumbled, lighting it with a gold-plated Zippo. A sudden, stinking cloud of smoke filled the car, and when Tessa coughed slightly, he frowned and cracked his window. “You do realize that, right? He’ll guard that goddamn kid himself now—lock him in his room and shove the key up his own ass for safekeeping.”
Tessa moved her hand hesitantly away from her nose. Her fingertips were smeared with blood; bright red droplets had fallen and stained the lap of her pants. The arch of her cheek was still stinging, and she had no doubt that there would be a bruise there. It would be gone as quickly as it came; her accelerated healing would see to that, but in the meantime, it ached just the same.
Rene…oh, God, please help me, she thought.
“The Elders aren’t going to give a shit if I’m not back by then,” Martin said to Monica. “I’ll call Father when we stop for the night and he’ll handle things from there.” He paused as Monica jabbered at him, a sharp flurry of garbled sounds muffled to Tessa’s ear. “Yes, I said stop for the night! What, do you think I’m going to drive straight on through clear the hell to Lake Tahoe?”
The Elders know he’s left the farm, Tessa thought in surprise. Brandon had left Kentucky without permission, as had she when she’d followed him. Their brother and sister, Caine and Emily, had tailed Tessa to hunt Brandon down, but they, too, had been acting without the Elders’ knowledge. Or at least, Allistair Davenant knows. What’s going on?
Martin uttered a bark of humorless laughter and spared Tessa a withering glance. “Don’t worry about that,” he said into the phone. “I have no intention of touching the little bitch.”
“Martin…please…!” Tessa gasped, frightened as Martin dragged her by the arm, marching her smartly across the parking lot toward a motel. She’d been sleeping and was now bewildered and disoriented; Martin had driven the entire day through and well past dusk. For more than ten hours now, they’d been on the road, the only occasions to stop coming when she needed to relieve herself—in which case, he’d pull off to the side of the road, force her out of the car and then stand within an arm’s length of her while she squatted.
“Yeah. Like I’m going to let you duck into a bathroom all by yourself,” he’d scoffed when she’d dared to protest. This had been followed by a sharp, painful cuff to the back of her head, and she hadn’t objected anymore.
She was hungry, thirsty, stiff and sore, and she stumbled, falling to her hands and knees when he shoved her unceremoniously across the threshold and into a small motel room.
“Get up.” Martin followed behind her, close as a shadow, and she flinched as he slammed the door behind him. He locked the door, then jerked her to her feet. He spun her around to face him, then shoved her backward, sending her sprawling against the bedspread.
“Take off your clothes,” he told her, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it against the back of a nearby chair. She watched as he loosened his tie, then the buttons at the cuffs of his shirtsleeves. There was no mistaking what he meant or wanted; if she needed any further clue, the grotesque swell of his erection suddenly bulging from the front of his slacks made it clear.
Oh, God, she thought, scooting back on the bed and shaking her head. Not that, not now. God, please—not ever again. Not with him.
“You…you told Monica you weren’t going to touch me,” she said, because now she understood—Monica had been jealous, angered by the fact that Martin had mentioned stopping for the night with Tessa. The only person who’d ever seemed to wield any control or power over Martin outside of his father had been Monica, and Tessa hoped desperately that mentioning her name would be enough to curb his sudden, unwanted interest.
“I lied,” he said. “Now take off your goddamn clothes.”
The idea of Martin touching her, of his hands falling anyplace against her body where Rene’s had caressed with such welcome passion made her feel sick. “No,” she said, her voice warbling.
He’d unbuttoned his shirt but paused now, his brow arched as he glared at her, looking momentarily surprised—if not somewhat irritated—by her refusal.
“I said…” He stepped toward her, catching hold of the front of her blouse in his fist. She uttered a quiet, frightened cry as he jerked violently against the thin fabric, sending buttons bouncing off the mattress to the floor and ripping seams open wide. “…take off your goddamn clothes.”
She had never dared to fight back against him even though Brandon had taught her some simple aikido moves, because she’d been trapped in the marriage, trapped in Martin’s house. But she wasn’t anymore—she had escaped Kentucky and him, and in that moment, as she blinked at the torn front of her shirt, she felt outrage boiling in her, four years’ worth overriding her reflexive fear. She felt her grandmother’s spirit well up inside, whatever fire she’d inherited from Eleanor that she’d long believed dormant or dead stoking suddenly, fiercely.
She caught Martin’s hand between her own as he released her shirt. Just as she had with Rene only two nights earlier, she jerk
ed against Martin’s arm, suddenly craning his wrist at an unnatural, painful angle. The shocking, unexpected pain of such a simple gesture had left Rene all but paralyzed in her grasp, and the effect was nothing less with her husband. Martin’s eyes flew wide in surprise, then wider still at the unexpected pain, and he cried out hoarsely as she wrenched his wrist all the more, forcing him to crash against the floor, dropping to his knees.
“Goddamn it!” he gasped, his face flush brightly, his mouth hanging open. “You…you fucking bitch! Let me go!”
“Fuck you, Martin,” Tessa seethed, jerking his arm again, taking admittedly sadistic pleasure in seeing pain flash in his eyes. She planted her foot against his chest, the wedge heel of her sandal squarely against his sternum and punted him away.
On her feet in an instant, Tessa scrambled off the bed and bolted for the door. Martin had dropped his keys onto a small table by the air-conditioning unit, and she snatched them as she darted past. Already, a plan had flooded her mind—yank open the door, run across the parking lot, get into the Jaguar and drive like hell. Rene was out there somewhere; she hadn’t been able to sense him all day, but she knew he had to be. She clung to this desperate, frantic hope with everything she had. He was out there and he was looking for her.
Rene! she screamed in her mind, grabbing the handle to the motel room door. Rene, help me!
She felt a strong, heavy hand suddenly clamp down brutally against her shoulder. Martin whirled her around, shoving her back against the door and she rammed her knee up, catching him squarely in the crotch. His eyes bulged as he uttered a breathless grunt and crashed to his knees.
“Bitch!” he gasped as she darted past him, his hands fumbling against her legs. His fingers closed around her ankle and Tessa yelped, floundering and falling face-first to the floor. “You…goddamn bitch…!”
She rolled onto her back, scrambling like a crab, driving her heels over and over at his face. “Get away from me!” she screamed, kicking wildly, and in her mind, she cried again: Rene! Rene, help me! Oh, God, please!
She stumbled to her feet, trying to dance over Martin’s sprawled body and reach the front door. He pawed at her, his hands slapping clumsily for purchase, and she kicked some more, driving him away. She wrenched the door open, but in her blind panic, didn’t realize or remember that he’d fastened the chain. The door snapped open no more than four inches before being caught by this short tether, and for a frantic moment, overcome with terror, Tessa couldn’t do anything except blink at it, jerking desperately, vainly against the chain.
At last she came to her senses enough to close the door and rip the chain away, leaving it to swing against the alabaster door frame. She moved to open the door, but Martin’s hand shot out over her shoulder, smashing it closed once more. His other hand closed in her hair, jerking her back, and she cried out as he tossed her the length of the room. His eyes had rolled over black like a shark’s, and his fangs had extended in his fury; he threw Tessa with the preternatural strength of one filled with the bloodlust, and she crashed brutally into the far wall before crumpling to the floor, knocking over the bedside lamp and telephone as she went.
He was on her, leaping across the breadth of the motel room like he was an extra on wires in one of those Chinese fighting movies. She barely had time to get her hands beneath her, to struggle and raise her head before his feet slammed into her immediate view, landing with enough force to shiver the floorboards beneath the carpet.
“Don’t!” she gasped, holding out a pleading hand, because he wasn’t thinking rationally now; he was in a blind rage, consumed with the bloodlust. He wouldn’t feed from her—to do so from another Brethren was considered an abomination—but he meant to hurt her—badly. “Oh, God…the baby…!”
“Fuck the baby.” He grabbed her hair and jerked her to her feet, sending pain searing through her scalp. She cried out again, then her voice cut off sharply as he caught her by the throat, shoving her back against the wall. She felt the drywall crunch beneath her, splintering at the forceful impact, and then Martin raised her aloft, hoisting her off the ground, leaving her feet to pedal and drum helplessly in the air while she gagged for breath.
“You fucking bitch,” he seethed, his voice lisping and distorted. His fangs had dropped fully, and his jaw had snapped out of place to accommodate the gruesome lengths. “You could be carrying a goddamn litter of sons in your gut and it wouldn’t save you.”
Tessa slapped vainly at his hands, her mouth open wide as she gulped for any hint of air. She couldn’t force any past the massive, crushing force of his palm against her windpipe and began to see tiny lights flickering in front of her eyes, the room beyond fading into heavy, dusky shadows.
Oh, God, she thought. Rene…oh, God, help me…my baby…!
“You’re a goddamn lying, stealing Noble whore,” Martin said, spraying her face with spittle, leaning close enough so that she could see herself reflected against the glistening, black planes of his corneas, her face twisted as she strangled. “Just like your slut grandmother. So I guess that makes it only fitting that you fucking die like Eleanor.”
She didn’t even have time to consider this; the shadows closed in on her, a dark and heavy shroud, and her eyes rolled back into her skull. When she heard a sharp report, the sound of the motel room door flying wide open and smashing into the wall; when Martin’s hand fell away from her neck and she collapsed to the floor in a shuddering, gagging heap, she thought she was only dreaming. When she heard a screeching, squawking, fluttering din and realized the tiny confines of the room were suddenly filled with a swarm of birds—dozens, if not hundreds of them—she knew. Oh, God, I’m dead…dreaming all of this…my God, Martin killed me…and the baby…
She heard Martin shrieking, his heavy footfalls as he staggered about, his hands thrown up toward his face as the birds attacked. Shielding her head feebly with her hand, still panting and choked, she looked up blearily and watched him flounder around the room, swinging his fists, trying to ward them off. They tangled their talons in his hair, tore into his face with their beaks, snapping at his eyes, leaving bloody streaks and pockmarks in their wake. There were too many and he couldn’t fend them off; he danced in broad, clumsy circles, his voice ripping up shrill octaves as he screamed.
Then, impossibly, she felt a tingling sensation in her mind, like a light caress along the back of her neck, a soft voice whispering near her ear and her eyes flew wide in realization.
“Martin Davenant, I presume?” Rene said, materializing into view like a ghost from behind the swirling cloud of birds. Martin whirled, as startled by his approach as Tessa. She caught a quick wink of light flashing off something metal—a pistol in Rene’s hand—and then he smashed the butt of the gun into the side of Martin’s head, knocking him out cold and sending him sprawling to the carpet. “Yeah. That’s what I fucking thought.”
Tessa blinked at Rene, dazed and disbelieving as the birds settled down, either flying out the open door or landing against his shoulders. His hair was swept about his face in disarray and he needed a shave even worse than usual. His shirttails were untucked, his shirt rumpled and wrinkled, and to judge by the scarlet stain on the bandages, his wounded hand had bled again at some point. Like Martin, his fangs were extended, his eyes glossy, featureless and black. He looked a sad, sorry, pissed-off and disheveled mess, like some disgruntled cat that had fallen in the toilet during a flush.
“God, I love you…” she murmured, then fainted.
Chapter Sixteen
“Where the hell have you been?”
Rene winced, drawing the cell phone back from his ear slightly as the sharp, angry voice cut loudly through his skull. “Lina, chère,” he said with a forced smile and even more forced nonchalant cheer in his voice. “Hey, how are you? I was just—”
“Don’t give me that ‘Lina, chère’ crap, Rene. You were supposed to meet us in Rillito. I’ve been trying to call you all goddamn day.”
Damn. She sounded really pissed of
f.
He’d taken a room for the night at a small but charming mom-and-pop motel in Banning, California. By day, the view from just outside the room would probably be spectacular—the slopes of Mount San Gorgonio and Mount San Jacinto were visible in the distance. By night, there wasn’t much to see at all but a large, pale moon suspended overhead, draping the valley in dim illumination.
He sat on the side of a full-sized bed—the largest the motel had to offer—and glanced down at Tessa, who lay beside him. She was curled up on her side with her hands near her face like a small child. He reached down and brushed the cuff of his knuckles gently against her cheek, where a large, dark bruise had developed, marring her pale, porcelain skin. She had similar bruises around her neck, a violent splay of purple and black where Martin Davenant had tried to throttle her and more contusions around her right eye. She hadn’t roused from consciousness long enough to tell him what had happened, but he didn’t really need her to.
Christ Almighty, pischouette, he thought, momentarily choked.
He’d tried his best to clean her up once he’d carried her from the car into the room. Using a cool, wet rag, he’d bathed her face gently, dabbing at the blood smeared and crusted. Her shirt had been torn nearly to shreds, and he’d eased her carefully into one of his, slipping the old T-shirt over her head and drawing each of her long, slender arms through the sleeves.
There had been nothing arousing in this act of redressing her. She had seemed frail to him, and he’d handled her gingerly, with all of the deliberate and delicate care he might have a fragile, priceless piece of glass. She’d whimpered in her sleep as he’d moved her, even though he’d tried his best to disturb or hurt her as little as possible and he’d spoken softly to her all the while, murmuring nonsensical things to her in French; comforting words and phrases his grandmother had offered him in his youth whenever he had been hurt, sick or scared.
“Rene?” Lina snapped hotly in his ear. “Are you there?”
