by Reinke, Sara
She seemed to at last take notice of the fact that his pant leg was rolled up, his prosthetic exposed, and she studied it curiously for a moment. “No. Not really.” She glanced away, back to his face. “Probably just something left over from what happened with Brandon.” Another glance at his knee. “What are you doing?”
“Charging my battery,” he replied. “I have to do this every once in a while, otherwise it locks up on me.”
She walked over to the chair, kneeling on the floor between his legs, then rested her cheek against the inside of his left thigh. When he tensed somewhat at this, feeling absurdly self-conscious with his prosthetic now directly in her face, she glanced up. “Do you mind?”
How the hell was he supposed to say no, with her gazing at him, all sweet brown eyes and a coy, slight smile? Not to mention with her mouth suddenly within kissing distance of his crotch? The idea of that alone was enough to make him relax. “No, pischouette. Make yourself at home.”
At this invitation, she settled herself in comfortably. “I still think we should go and tell Lina and Brandon.”
He caressed the top of her head. “First thing in the morning. It’s going to be all right until then. I promise.”
“We’re going to have to leave now. Where are we going to go?”
She said this last with an anxious note in her voice, and he understood completely. He’d hoped that by taking such a roundabout path to California—south first to Louisiana and then across the west—it might buy them some time, a few months perhaps, to elude the Elders. But she was right, and no matter how hard he tried to play nonchalant about it, he knew it, too. If someone recognized Lina’s picture from TV and called the police, they would be in deep shit.
And if the dream he’d had of Augustus Noble wasn’t really a dream after all, then the Elders might have been as close behind them as Thibodaux—only a matter of days. Which meant they’d be in even deeper shit.
It has to have been a dream, he tried to tell himself, even though deep down in the pit of his gut, he knew somehow it hadn’t been; somehow he had been inside of Augustus Noble’s head.
And oh, mon Dieu, he was inside of mine, too.
Chapter Twenty-three
They had made the news. Police all over the country would be looking for Lina—looking for them.
Oh, God, Tessa thought, shivering, and no matter Rene’s reassurances, she still found herself glancing around the room or over her shoulder, as if she somehow expected to find armed SWAT members standing there in the shadows, waiting and ready to attack them.
Part of the problem was she was still on edge from her nightmare. Her mind had been troubled, tormented after what Brandon had told her that night, but she’d found some fleeting comfort in Rene’s company, wrapped in his arms. Enough so that she’d thought she could take refuge at least for a little while in sleep. But her mind had other ideas.
She’d dreamed that she was outside in the night; the air was crisp and almost wintry and her breath had fogged about her face in a dim, hazy halo set aglow by the light of the moon. She hid among some tangled shrubs, a dense line of bushes marking the rear perimeter of a yard behind a small one-story bungalow. Most of the windows save one were darkened; from the way the light bounced and skittered through the one that remained illuminated, she could tell someone was awake, watching TV.
It was a small house in a small neighborhood full of cookie-cutter homes, each one squat and box-shaped with stucco exteriors painted in southwestern-inspired colors. The backyard had a sparse lawn of mostly crabgrass and weeds, with plastic children’s toys left scattered about—a picnic table here, a pint-sized playhouse there, to the left, a rust-spotted swing set and to the right, a red tricycle with yellow plastic streamers protruding from each handlebar.
She dreamed of creeping close to the house, crouching alongside the back wall beneath one of the darkened windows. Here, she raised onto her tiptoes and sniffed, drawing the scents from inside the house, faint but discernable, against her nose. Pork chops for dinner, breaded and fried, with some kind of cheesy casserole baked in the oven. Laundry detergent, fabric softener, cat urine and something else—something sweet. Something that had drawn her out of the shadows and to that place, that house, that window.
Blood.
It hadn’t taken much effort to pry the screen away from the window, or to hook her fingertips against the sill and pull herself up. She caught a glimpse of herself reflected in the glass and drew back in start, because it hadn’t been her face she’d seen. It had been Monica Davenant’s—Martin’s first wife, her eyes rolled over black, her fangs extended, her jaw dislocated from the full effects of the bloodlust.
Somehow Tessa had dreamed of being Monica, of slipping her fingernails between the window pane and frame and, with the strength of the bloodlust, giving a sharp, swift enough jerk to snap the metal locking mechanisms like they’d been made from spun sugar. The window slid obligingly open and Monica had wriggled her long, narrow frame through, shimmying on her belly like an enormous snake, her extended pupils drowning her eyes but filling her sight with a nearly photo-negative view of the room beyond, one in which every scrap or hint of light, no matter how slim or meager, was detected.
She saw toys everywhere—on bookshelves and a small tabletop, a dresser, overflowing from an oversized laundry basket in one corner. Posters of Dora the Explorer and the Disney princesses lined the walls, along with a “Grow-with-me-Elmo!” height chart. To her right was a toddler’s daybed, with a painted white and faux brass metal frame and frilly, pink and white covers. A little girl lay tucked beneath the sheets, her dark hair spilled about her head against the pillow, her thumb tucked in her mouth as she slept.
Oh, God, Tessa had thought, because she’d realized what was going to happen, what she meant to do. She could smell the little girl’s blood—to her keen nose, it was as thick and sweet as vanilla, the irresistible, warm fragrance of cookies baking on a cold afternoon. Oh, God, no, don’t!
But even though she’d tried to stop herself from moving, she’d crept forward, slithering in the darkness, the sound of her own breath growing rapid and sodden, choked with eager slobber. She’d watched in helpless horror as her shadow had grown long, spilling across the little girl’s bedsheets, and then the child had stirred, her eyes blinking open dazedly. There had been one moment of bewilderment that had shifted quickly, almost instantaneously to stark terror as the girl had realized what was at her beside, and then Tessa had heard Monica’s voice in her mind, her words hissing with icy malice as she’d reached out, forcing herself into the child’s head and stifling her mentally.
How sweet, Monica said, closing her hand against the girl’s nightgown and jerking her out of the bed. Fresh meat.
And then Tessa had awoke, her eyes wide, a scream poised in her throat. She’d found herself staring up at the ceiling of their motel room in Tahoe, the low sound of voices and the dancing play of light against the plaster from the TV set filling the room.
As she knelt on the floor, her head against Rene’s leg while he charged the battery in his prosthetic knee, memories of the dream returned to her. This was probably because of her proximity to Rene’s thigh, the femoral artery that lay nestled deep beneath the meat of his muscles there. She could sense it through his flesh and clothes, the heat of his blood, the fervent rush that waxed and waned with every pounding measure of his heartbeat. He’d been right when he’d rescued her from Martin. She needed to feed. The longing to had stirred even before that—the morning Rene had fallen in the bathtub and cut his lip. It had remained with her ever since even though she’d tried to repress and ignore it, a little whispering, scraping voice in the back of her head. The bloodlust.
Giving in to her sexual desires for Rene hadn’t helped, either. Every time she grew aroused physically for him, the bloodlust became likewise aroused. He was half human—he felt like another of the Brethren to her in her mind when she’d sense him, but his body—his blood—smelled human to her, and t
here had been moments in which she’d grown so tantalized by the fragrance of him, the awareness of his blood coursing through him, that it had been a nearly painful struggle to hold herself in any semblance of restraint.
Like right now.
“No offense, pischouette, but if you keep doing that, I’m going to have to haul you up here into my lap and rip those pants off you.”
She glanced up, snapping out of a reverie at the sound of Rene’s voice. She’d been nearly mesmerized by the rhythmic flow of blood within his thigh, so much so, she’d drifted into a nearly fuguelike state, the bloodlust within her stoking. She realized that she’d been stroking Rene’s inner thigh, sliding her hand against the weathered denim of his jeans, less than half an inch away from his crotch. And, to judge by the considerable swell she could see there, straining against the zipper fly, he hadn’t minded.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
It also didn’t help that whenever Rene was sexually aroused—like right now—the rate of his blood flow increased exponentially. His heartbeat quickened, his respirations sharpened, and his body released a cocktail of adrenaline and other hormones into his system that, for a Brethren, made him absolutely intoxicating.
“Don’t be.” He reached for her, his voice low, growing gravelly with need. “Come here, pischouette.”
She wanted to tell him no, because she could already feel her gums begin to swell and throb, the tips of her canine teeth beginning a slight but inexorable descent. She let him draw her to her feet. He cupped his hands against her face and drew her toward him, kissing her. He tasted sweet, the rush of blood infusing his skin, his tongue, and she pressed herself against him, kissing him fiercely, wanting to slake even an iota of that desperate urge with the taste of him.
“Mon Dieu, woman,” he whispered, nearly muffled by her mouth as she reached between them, jerking against his shirt, yanking it up from the waistband of his jeans. She caught the panels of cloth in her hands and ripped it open wide, popping buttons and seams loose, leaving his bare chest exposed.
God, I want him, she thought, leaning back long enough to shrug her way out of her own shirt, to cast it over her shoulder. She splayed her fingers against his chest, drawing them firmly along the contours of his muscles, following the plane of his abdomen until she reached the button of his fly. She kissed him again, tangling her tongue against his, helping shove his jeans down as he raised his hips from the chair. He moved to unbutton her pants, but she pushed his hands away to do it herself. She had to hurry; she was desperate for him now, her body caught in some strained limbo between the bloodlust and physical need. If she didn’t take him, if she didn’t grind herself to one hell of a massive orgasm against him, she was afraid of what she’d do, of where her desires would take her next.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” she breathed, her voice hoarse and trembling. She’d shoved her pants down and kicked them across the room. Now she straddled him, shoving her knees down between the arms of the chair and his hips, and crouched with him poised to enter her. He strained to kiss her, craning his head back.
“You’re not going to hurt me,” he said, and as his hands draped against her hips to guide her, she fell against him, impaling herself along his hot, hard length. His voice dissolved in a moan that she muffled with a kiss as she moved into a quick, grinding rhythm against him.
“Tu es étonnant, femme,” he gasped, over and over. You are amazing, woman. “Goddamn, tu es étonnant!”
He moved his head to kiss her shoulder, but as he did, it left the side of his throat exposed to her. God, she could smell the blood pounding through his carotid artery, she could damn near hear the resonant rush of it, and she caught him by the hair, curling her fingers tightly and holding his head pinned at that angle. Her gums ached now, sharp and distinct pain as her teeth dropped, and she leaned toward him, feeling her breath flutter against his sweat-glossed skin.
“Rene, stop,” she whispered, but as she spoke her lips danced against his flesh, and the blood was so tantalizingly within her reach, she salivated unconsciously. Rene drove her harder and harder against him, digging his fingers fiercely into her buttocks. He was nearing climax; she could feel it in the tension that had suddenly steeled the muscles bridging his neck and shoulders. She could hear it in the way he gasped for breath; she could sense it in the jack-hammering of his heartbeat and smell it in the ambrosia of adrenaline, hormones and blood that his body radiated in thick, hot waves.
She opened her mouth, letting her lips settle against his throat as she might have to feed; letting her tongue press against the frantic point of his pulse, the tips of her teeth just barely nipping his flesh.
“Tessa!” he gasped, and when he came, he hit that spot deep within that always sent shudders of pleasure almost instantaneously through her. She dug her nails into his shoulders and writhed, grinding against him, keeping him at that glorious place as the bloodlust within her was obliterated—drowned in the sudden, wondrous throes of release.
As they subsided, she huddled against him, wide-eyed with the horrified realization of what she’d done—of just how close she’d come. Oh, God!
She could feel her teeth withdrawing, her canines sliding back into her gums, and she pressed her lips together in a thin line.
Oh, my God. She closed her eyes, stricken and ashamed. Oh, God, I…I almost hurt him…I nearly bit into his neck!
“Mon Dieu,” Rene said with a breathless, shaky laugh. “Another time or two like that, pischouette, and you’re going to kill me.”
He kissed her shoulder, running his hands up and down the length of her spine, caressing her. God help me, she thought, clutching his shoulder, keeping her face turned away. God help us both, you’re more right than you know, Rene.
Chapter Twenty-four
“You want the good news or the bad news first, chère?” Rene asked Lina. It was shortly after six in the morning; the sun was only a rosy hint outlining the mountains along the horizon. Lina had answered her motel room door wearing only a thin T-shirt that fell to her hips and a pair of leopard-print panties, her long legs bare beneath. Lina ran more than ten miles every day, come rain, snow, sleet or hail. He loved her like a sister, but he had to admit, the girl had a hell of a set of gams.
“Rene?” She blinked at him, scowling groggily, then tucked her hair behind her ears. He could see goose bumps that had raised almost immediately on her arms, the bullet points of her nipples pushing out from beneath her T-shirt. “Jesus Christ, it’s cold. Get in here.”
She sidestepped and shut the door behind him as he walked into the room. It was deliciously warm inside, a toasty contrast to the crisp morning air. He shuddered slightly like a dog shaking off a splash of water, adjusting to the sudden, dramatic difference. Brandon lay on his stomach, asleep on the bed, his head turned away from the door.
“Sorry to come so early, chère,” Rene said, unzipping the front of his ski jacket.
“What time is it anyway?” Lina growled, squinting at the digital bedside clock. When she made note of the hour, she groaned. “Rene, what the hell do you want? I’m sorry about last night, but please don’t tell me you’ve been up all this time stewing over it.”
“I haven’t been, no. And your apology is accepted.” He gave her a smacking, playful kiss on the lips, leaving her to sputter while he unfolded his laptop computer on a nearby table. “The good news, chère, is that between you, Brandon, me and Tessa, we’ve got about fifteen thousand dollars cash in our hands we can use to live on.”
“Yeah?” Lina said somewhat suspiciously. When he sat down in a chair facing the table, she plopped down opposite him, drawing her knees together to sit in a clumsy, tomboyish posture he found amusing and sort of cute. “What’s the bad news?”
“We’re going to have to make that last awhile, I’m afraid,” he replied, cuing his wi-fi internet connection. He spared her a glance. “My bank accounts have been frozen.”
Lina’s eyes flew wide. “What?”
He nodded once, grim. “Oui. I was online this morning checking on some investments and found out. All of my primary accounts—checking, savings, CDs, IRAs, my stock portfolios—everything I have in my name is on hold.”
“On hold? By who?”
He typed something into the Google search bar, hit a couple of links, and spun the computer around to face her. “By our dear old Uncle Sam, chère. Seems like you and me, we’re now officially les gens d’intérêt in the murder investigation for Jude Hannam and his girlfriend.”
Her eyes widened all the more. “What?” She leaned forward, incredulous, pulling the laptop closer. “Let me see that.”
It was an online copy of an article that had run in the Metropolitan Courier two days earlier. As startled as he’d been to discover he’d been locked out of his own bank accounts, he hadn’t needed to call his accounting firm to find out why. The news piece had explained it all.
FORMER POLICE PARTNERS SOUGHT IN GRISLY SLAYINGS, the headline declared.
Two former police partners are being sought for questioning in the ritualistic murder of local personal-injury attorney Jude Hannam and his girlfriend earlier this month. Angelina Jones and Rene Morin served on the Metropolitan Police Force together and were assigned as partners until last year, when Morin was left hospitalized and Jones on paid administrative leave following a shootout with a suspected drug dealer and gang member.
Jude Hannam’s body was one of two found following a bizarre, late-night incident aboard the river-barge nightclub complex, Apathy, in which patrons reported an attack by a flock of birds. More than two dozen people were injured in that incident. In the aftermath, Hannam was discovered in the Catacombs, a gothic-themed bar at Apathy that is reportedly popular among the city’s growing “vampire” subculture.
Hannam’s girlfriend, Ashlee Ferris, was found slain in the Victorian-district apartment the two shared. Both had suffered massive injuries to their upper torsos and throats and the state medical examiner has ruled that both died from blood loss as a result of this trauma. Police would not speculate as to whether or not the manners of death were related to the alternative lifestyle practiced by many patrons of the Catacombs, including the wearing of vampirelike dental prosthetics and the recreational consumption of animal and human blood.
