by Reinke, Sara
Brandon had met them in the parking lot as soon as Rene had pulled the silver Mercedes into a vacant parking slot. By then, the afternoon had begun to wane into evening, and dusky shadows drooped down from the mountains.
“Tessa remembers Martin calling her in the car, telling her to stay put,” Lina said, as Brandon’s fingers flew and darted in the air in front of him. She was translating for Brandon, who was still frantic and had forgotten himself, lapsing into sign language rather than psi-speech, just as Rene himself was sometimes apt to slip into French without thinking about it.
“She’d thought he meant at the farm in Kentucky, but he must have meant stay put there in Anthony, only she didn’t listen,” Lina said. “Martin told Monica where they were going—to Tahoe to find Brandon. She had a credit card to access the money he’s been stealing from Bloodhorse all of these years. She must have used it to rent a car and follow.”
Rene didn’t give a shit how Monica Davenant had found them. All he cared about was Tessa. He strode briskly toward the motel room, leaving Brandon and Lina behind. He threw open the door and stood on the threshold for a long, anguished moment, his heart, breath and voice all caught in a choking, strangling knot in his throat.
“Tessa,” he breathed.
She lay facing the door, curled onto her side atop the bed, with her knees drawn to her chest like a small child. The room was dark, save for the slight circumference of orange-yellow light offered by the bedside lamp, but he could still see tears glistening in her large eyes. There were new bruises marring her pale skin; dozens of scrapes and cuts on her face. She looked small and frail, vulnerable and hurting and it broke his heart.
“It hurts…” she whispered as he leaned over her, stricken.
“I know,” he whispered back. He hooked the sheet with his hand and drew it carefully away from her. Brandon had tried to help with her wound, the gruesome point in which a fireplace poker had apparently run her through, but the younger man obviously didn’t know shit for triage. He’d managed to do little more than get Tessa’s blood-soaked clothes off her and try to cover the wound with one of the motel’s white terry cloth towels. Tessa held that towel in place now with one hand, but it was stained bright red, as was the bedspread beneath her.
“Let me see, pischouette,” he said quietly, easing the towel away from her grasp. He sucked in an aghast breath when he saw her stomach, the bloody, ragged hole torn just slightly below the vertex of her rib cage. “Merde.”
He crossed the room to his duffel bag and dug out the first-aid supplies they’d bought to tend to his hand. Grabbing a handful of fresh linens, some hand towels and washcloths from the nearby sink vanity, he returned to the bedside.
“I can’t feel the baby, Rene,” Tessa whimpered, watching as he upturned the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, soaking one of the washcloths. “Not like before…not like…”
“Hush now,” he said, shaking his head. “That baby is going to be just fine.”
When he pressed the washcloth to her stomach, he tried to be as gentle as possible, but she still cried out softly, jerking against the bed. “Je suis désolé, Tessa,” he said softly. I’m sorry.
“It hurts, Rene,” she gasped again, tears spilling. She began to shudder, hiccuping for breath. “It hurts…so bad!”
“I know.” His eyes flooded with tears, his throat felt strangled with them and stroked her hair back from her brow. “Je suis désolé.” I’m sorry.
She kept her eyes closed as he dressed her wounds, using fabric tape to secure matching squares of thick gauze over the points of impact. Had the poker caught her low enough to pierce her womb? He didn’t know enough about anatomy to be able to tell. She needed a hospital; that much he did know, because it sure as hell didn’t take a genius. But he also knew they couldn’t take that risk. Not now.
“I…I can’t feel the baby,” Tessa told him again, trembling as he finished binding her wounds. “Not now. Not like before. It comes and goes, like someone turning a light switch on and off. Only…it’s not bright anymore. It’s not bright at all.”
Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks and he enfolded her in his arms. She huddled against him, clinging to him fiercely. “It’s dying, Rene!” she cried, hoarse and pained. “Oh, God, my baby is dying and there’s nothing I can do!”
“You’re wrong,” he said softly. He tucked his fingertips beneath her chin, lifting her tearful gaze to him. “There is something you can do, pischouette. Something we both can do. Something that will save your baby.”
She shook her head, confused. “What? I…no, Rene, I don’t…”
“Tessa,” he said. “Feed from me.”
Her body stiffened against him and she drew back, her eyes widening. “No.” She shook her head. “No, don’t say that, Rene. Don’t ask me to do that. Not now. I just…I couldn’t…I…I can’t!”
“Tessa…” He reached for her, but she slapped his hand away. She tried to sit up, but the effort hurt her, and she grimaced, gritting her teeth.
“That…that’s not fair to make me choose,” she gasped. When she looked up at him, her brows were furrowed, but her eyes were frightened. “How can you ask that of me? You’ve seen me feed! You know what happens—you know what happens to me! I…I become a monster! I can’t control myself, and I can’t lose you! Not now, not you, too!” She pressed her hands against her belly and stared at him, wide-eyed and anguished. “Don’t you understand? I can’t lose you, too!”
Even as she tried to shrug him off, he caressed her face, drawing the pad of his thumb lightly against her tear-dampened cheek. “You’re not going to lose me, pischouette. Not now, not ever.”
She tried to shake her head, to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her. “I can’t!”
“Yes, you can,” he said, and she blinked at him as new tears spilled.
“Please, Rene,” she whimpered. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
He smiled at her gently and kissed her lips. “You’re not going to hurt me, pischouette. I promise.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Tessa felt trapped, torn between her unborn child and Rene, both of whom she loved and neither of whom she wanted to lose.
Before Rene had arrived, she had closed her eyes, lying on the bed with her arms wrapped around her midriff, as if she could somehow cradle her baby that way, hold it and comfort it deep inside her womb. She’d kept her mind open as the fluttering glow of its fragile life force had grown weaker by the moment. Her entire body hurt, but nowhere more so than within her heart, where it felt like a piece of her was fading along with her child, crumbling in upon some great and terrible darkness, a cold and hollow chasm that would eventually engulf her, swallow her whole.
My baby.
She’d closed her eyes, ignoring her brother’s attempts to comfort her. She hadn’t wanted Brandon; for once, not even her twin could make things better. She’d wanted Rene, and in his absence, she’d turned inward for solace. She imagined her baby. In her mind, she held the child—a plump, pink and beautiful cherub with bright, dark eyes, round cheeks and downy fuzz for hair. She imagined the smell of the baby—baby oil and powder and lotion, something warm and wondrous and impossibly sweet; she dreamed of its voice, a soft, melodic babble of happy, gurgling sounds.
She imagined her child, at one moment a little girl, in another, a little boy, each around four years old, like her brother Daniel, holding her hand and walking alongside her in Kentucky, back at the farm. It was the same dream she’d had at least a million times since she’d found out she was pregnant, one that she knew by heart.
She imagined the sensation of miniscule fingers intertwined with hers, of looking down into a pair of chocolate-colored eyes that were the mirror image of her own. “Do you know how much I love you?” she dreamed of asking her child.
“To the moon and back again,” the little son in her mind would reply.
“More than all of the fishes in the sea,” the little daughter would chirp.
Oh, God, p
lease, she’d prayed, holding herself tightly, tears squeezing out from between her lashes. Please don’t take my baby.
She didn’t want to lose the child, but she didn’t want this, either—the prospect of hurting Rene, of bleeding him dry in the throes of the bloodlust, in her desperation to save the life of her baby. How can I choose? she thought, clutching at Rene, tucking her cheek against his shoulder. Oh, God, what can I do? If I don’t feed, then I’ll lose my baby, but if I do…
An image flashed in her mind—Rene lying sprawled on the bed, his throat torn open, his shirt soaked in blood, and her grandmother’s words, Eleanor’s voice echoing in her mind: Fresh meat for the celebration of slaughter.
Oh, God, how can I choose?
I can help you, Tessa, Brandon said in her mind, drawing her gaze to where he had come to stand beside Lina in the doorway. I can help you feed from Rene. I can show you when to stop, just like he did for me when I fed from Lina.
“No, petit,” Rene said aloud, shaking his head, drawing a surprised glance from Brandon. “You and Lina leave us alone for a while. Me and Tessa, we’re going to be fine.”
He met her eyes as he said this, offering a wink and a gentle smile. When neither Brandon nor Lina immediately moved, he turned to them again. “Go on now,” he said with a nod toward the door. “Il est bien.” It’s all right.
“Rene…” Lina said, her face drawn, her eyes round with worry. She cut a glance at Tessa, then back again. Clearly, she, too, thought it was a lousy idea. “Are you sure about this?”
He smiled at Tessa again, brushing the cuff of his fingers against her cheek. “I’m positive, chère.”
When Brandon and Lina were gone and they were alone, he stood and locked the deadbolt on the door. As he turned and walked back to the bed, Tessa shied against the headboard, wincing as the movement sent pain spearing through her.
“I can’t do this, Rene.”
“Yes, you can.” He unbuttoned the front of his shirt, tugging the tails loose from his jeans. He shrugged his way out of the sleeves and dropped the shirt onto the foot of the bed. The amber lamplight played against the contours of his chest as he walked toward her and there was no place for her to go, nowhere else she could hide.
He sat against the edge of the bed, cradled her face between both hands and leaned toward her, letting the tip of his nose brush hers. “I love you, Tessa,” he whispered. “Mon Dieu, woman, don’t you know that? Let me help you. Let me help your baby.”
He lifted his hand between them, his left hand, the one in which he’d been shot. As she watched, he began to peel back the bandages covering the wound. “What are you doing?” she asked.
He didn’t answer, merely let the swaddling gauze drop in a pile to the floor beside the bed. She could see that the wound through his hand had healed considerably; it remained open and sore looking at both the points of entry and exit, but no longer seemed to hurt him enough to impede his movement. When he shoved the thumb of his opposite hand into the center of his palm—gouging open the wound—she cried out in startled horror.
“Rene! What are you doing?”
He’d buckled slightly in pain, drawing his injured hand reflexively against his belly and gasping for breath. When he looked up at her, his eyes were smarting with tears, but he struggled to smile. “Getting you a wake-up call,” he said in a hoarse, strained voice.
She blinked, bewildered, and he held up his hand. The wound had begun to bleed, but she realized she hadn’t needed to see this to know. The scent of his blood, a thick, heady fragrance, had already reached her nose, and her body’s instinctive reaction to it had almost instantaneously begun.
“Here.” Rene held out his right hand, the tip of his thumb smeared with his own blood. He brought it toward her mouth, and though she tried to shy, she froze, paralyzed and breathless when he drew it across her bottom lip. When he touched her again, tracing blood against the contour of her mouth, she let him delve between her lips, the tantalizing hint of his blood tangy against her tongue. “I love you, Tessa. Take it.”
I love you. No man had ever said that to her before; no man had ever made her feel as safe and wanted, welcome and needed as Rene did. She had always listened to Eleanor’s tales of love and romance with the Grandfather like something out of a storybook; beautiful and wondrous, too much so, to ever be real. And yet it was possible; it was indeed real. She’d found it for herself. She’d found it in Rene.
“Take my blood, Tessa,” he breathed. “Whatever you want—anything you need. Heal yourself. Heal the baby.”
She touched his face, looking up into his eyes. Her gums felt swollen and sore; her canine teeth had begun to drop, sliding out of the recesses of her mouth. She could sense the pounding rhythm of his heart pushing blood through his body in a forceful, fervent tide. She could see his earnest, desperate sincerity in his eyes, hear it in his words, feel it in his mind.
“Please, Tessa,” Rene said, and he leaned toward her, turning his head so that he pressed his left cheek against her right shoulder. By doing this, he left his neck open and utterly exposed, directly in front of her, the side of his throat—his carotid artery—less than an inch from her mouth.
Oh, God, she thought, her eyes welling with tears. Her lips were parting; she felt the slight, uncomfortable popping of her jaw reflexively dislocating, her fangs sliding downward to their full, curved lengths. Oh, Rene, please forgive me…
The world shifted to stark contrasts of shadow and glare as her pupils opened wide, bathing everything in the glow of the bloodlust. She pressed her lips against the warmth of his flesh, letting her teeth first pierce him, then sink deeply through underlying muscles and tendons. She felt the soft, sharp intake of his breath against her, his shoulders stiffening reflexively. Blood suddenly spurted into her mouth, her fangs hitting home against the thick, pulsing carotid. She drank greedily, gulping to keep pace as his heart sent a rhythmic flow coursing down her throat. It was like nothing she had ever tasted before; he wasn’t fully human, and his blood had a flavor uniquely his own, something coppery, bittersweet, thick like molten chocolate and impossibly hot.
All at once, she could feel the baby again; with every pounding measure of Rene’s heart, she could sense it growing stronger, her awareness of it in her mind strengthening. The more she swallowed, the more thready Rene’s pulse became, but the brighter that precious golden glow grew. After several moments, Rene uttered a low, breathless sound, nearly a moan and she closed her fist in his hair, keeping her lips clamped against his throat. His hands drooped away from her, trailing limply against her shoulders and torso before slumping to the mattress.
An image flashed through Tessa’s mind: walking along at the farm again, following the narrow road through grazing pastures and bluegrass fields, looking down into the upturned face of a child—a little boy, with dark eyes and hair and no hint of Martin whatsoever in his face. Only this time, they weren’t alone. Rene walked with them, holding on to one of the boy’s hands while Tessa clasped the other. The child beamed as he looked up at Rene.
“Guess how much I love you, Daddy?” he asked.
At this, at the word Daddy, Tessa was shocked from the fugue of the bloodlust and her mouth faltered, her lips slipping from Rene’s throat.
Daddy.
As many times as she’d had the daydream of walking with her child, playing that long-remembered game Eleanor had once taught them, Tessa had never envisioned a father. Martin didn’t know how to love anyone, much less a child; he might have provided the seed for the baby nestled in Tessa’s womb, but he was not now, nor would he ever be Daddy.
He gave the seed, but it’s Rene who’s giving the baby life.
Tessa let go of Rene’s hair. She drew back, sliding her teeth free from his throat, sending a dribble of blood spilling down her chin.
Guess how much I love you, Daddy? the little boy in her dream had asked, the son she now realized with sudden but unwavering certainty was growing inside of her. A son, she thought.
Oh, God…my son… our son, mine and Rene’s.
“To…to the moon…” Rene murmured, his eyelids fluttering closed as she lay him gently back against the bed, cradling his head with her hands, “…and back again.”
“Rene?” She stroked his face, pushing his hair back. “Rene, can you hear me?”
He opened his eyes, blinked dazedly up at her. “There was a boy…” he said, sounding groggy and hoarse. “Où est-il allé?” Where did he go?
When he tried to sit up, wincing, she eased him back again. “It’s all right.”
“Did it work?” he asked, brushing his fingers clumsily against her face, smearing blood along her chin. “The bébé…?”
“I think so,” she replied. “It may be too early yet, too soon to know for sure…”
But I can feel it, she thought. And I dreamed of it, too—I dreamed of our son, Rene.
She didn’t mean for him to overhear her thoughts, but she hadn’t meant for him to share in her dream, as well. But somehow now, as then, he seemed to, and now, as then, he drew comfort from it. He nodded once, his eyelids drooping closed, his breath huffing out in a long, deep sigh. “Bon, puis,” he murmured. Good, then.
Tessa lay down beside him, tucking her head against the nook of his shoulder. She’d taken enough from him to probably have proven fatal had he been fully human. His Brethren birthright would help him recover, but he was weak now and exhausted.
“Sie tu plais…séjour avec moi,” he breathed to her, more unconscious than awake. Please…stay with me.
She closed her eyes, listening to the comforting cadence of his heartbeat, feeling the soft but steady golden glow of life within her belly. “I will, Rene,” she whispered, reaching for his hand, slipping her fingers through his. “Always.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
To Tessa, everything that happened after that seemed to be a blur. Rene had given her pain medicine, powerful prescription narcotics that had left her mind swimming, submerged in a murky state between unconsciousness and awake. When her head finally cleared enough to allow her some lucidity, she found herself blinking up at the motel ceiling, a swirling mass of miniature stalactites in plaster dripping down at her. There was light, the pale glow of new sunlight as it seeped through the nearby window drapes.
