by Reinke, Sara
Martin cut his eyes to the ledger, then back to Rene. He took a moment to wheeze some more for breath, then wisely decided not to play dumb. “What do you want?” he asked in a croak.
Rene smiled, reaching beneath his coat again, pulling out the Sig Sauer from the waistband of his jeans. Martin’s eyes widened at the sight of the pistol and he shrank against the pole, suddenly, frantically twisting his hands against his bonds.
Rene dropped him a wink. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Someone knocked loudly enough at the door to rouse Tessa from a sound and dreamless sleep. “Rene?” she called, her voice hoarse and sleepy. She looked around the empty room, bewildered. “Rene? Are you here?”
The knocking continued and Tessa stumbled to her feet. Rene was apparently gone, his clothes along with him, and she frowned as she pulled on a T-shirt and wiggled her way into her jeans.
She opened the door and found Brandon on the stoop. “Hey,” she said with a smile, tucking her disheveled hair behind her ears. “Good morning.”
What are you doing out of bed? Brandon’s eyes had widened in alarm and he reached for her as she stepped aside, letting him into the room. You shouldn’t be on your feet. You need to be resting! Where’s Rene?
She shrugged. “I’m not sure. He was here earlier. Maybe he went to get some breakfast.”
Rene had told her that Brandon and Lina had taken turns coming to check on her over the last few days. Tessa had been touched by their concern, moved by Brandon’s obvious guilt and shame over her attack, and the fact she’d nearly lost the baby. Blaming himself for even those things furthest from his control was just a part of her twin’s gentle nature.
He shouldn’t have left you alone. Brandon tried to steer her toward the bed and she laughed, ducking away from him.
“Of course he should have. I’m fine, Brandon. Jesus, you’re as bad as he is!”
Fine, huh? he asked, because when she twisted to sidestep out of his reach, she’d felt a slight shudder of pain that had made her wince visibly.
“Mostly fine, then.” She touched her stomach, feeling that comforting glow of the baby’s mind and her smile widened. “I’m really, really good, in fact.”
When he cocked his head and brow in tandem, curious, she blushed. “I think it’s a boy. I mean, I’m pretty sure it’s a boy. I can really feel it now. It’s like Rene’s blood made it stronger—made both of us stronger somehow.” She rubbed her tummy again. “It’s a little boy.”
Brandon’s face lit up and he smiled broadly. Holy shit, Tessa! he exclaimed. That’s fantastic! Congratulations!
He moved to hug her, then hesitated, his expression growing uncertain. She laughed. “I’m not going to break, Brandon,” she said, stepping against him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He relaxed against her, returning the embrace, holding her snugly.
I thought I lost you, he whispered in her mind, and when she stepped back, she saw his dark eyes glistening with tears. He averted his gaze to the floor. I just…when I saw all of that blood…realized what had happened, I just…I thought…
Don’t cry, Tessa said as a tear rolled down his cheek. She felt her own throat constrict, her eyes suddenly sting. Oh, Brandon, you’re going to make me cry, too. Stop it.
He glanced up, his eyes still swimming and she hugged him again, even more fiercely. It’s all my fault, he said, clinging to her.
No, it’s not, she said.
He trembled. I was so scared, Tessa. I…I thought I lost you.
I’m fine, Brandon, she said to him. I promise. Please don’t cry. As she stroked her hand against his hair, she thought of all the years she’d lost with him, four long years trapped in Martin Davenant’s house, years in which the twins had each been tormented in their own ways, suffered their own abuses—suffering that had only been compounded because they hadn’t had each other to turn to for comfort or support. You’ll never lose me again, Brandon, she thought. I promise that, too.
She drew away from him and he reached into the hip pocket of his jeans. He sniffled, his brows furrowed slightly as he struggled to compose himself. Here, he said, pulling his hand out, his fingers folded into a fist as he offered something to her. With his free hand, he swatted at his face, wiping away tears. I…I thought you’d like to have this.
Curious, she looked down as he opened his hand. To her surprise, she saw the green sapphire pendant resting in the basin of his palm, the filigree gold chain coiled beneath it in a small pile.
Monica Davenant had it around her neck, he said. I found it before we left Vikingsholm, when I checked to make sure she was dead.
When Tessa didn’t immediately move to take the necklace, instead gazing at it for a long, uncertain moment, his brows lifted. Tessa, come on. Don’t let one stupid, shitty memory from me spoil all of the countless wonderful ones you have of Grandmother Eleanor. I don’t know how she felt or what she meant that day, but I know that I love you, even if she didn’t. So let this pendant stand for that, if nothing else. He smiled feebly. That’s got to be worth something, doesn’t it?
She looked into his dark eyes, nearly mirror images of her own, and couldn’t help but smile. “It’s worth a lot, Brandon,” she said, slipping the necklace from his hand. She dropped him a wink, then mouthed the words olive oil, making him laugh. “That makes it priceless, in fact.”
Chapter Thirty
Little more than an hour later, Brandon opened his motel room door, his eyes flying wide when he saw Rene leaning heavily against the door frame.
Jesus! What happened? the younger man exclaimed.
“Je suis bien,” Rene said as Brandon got an arm around his middle and led him, stumbling and dizzy, into the room. “I’m all right, petit.”
That’s bullshit, Rene—you’re bleeding! Brandon eased him down into an armchair and squatted beside him, visibly stricken. He reached for Rene, the shallow but messy laceration that cleaved a crooked path from his left temple to his cheekbone. What happened?
Rene shook his head. “Nothing I didn’t bring on myself,” he said, squinting against the sting of blood in his eye. Brandon stood, rushing to the sink vanity and soaking a washcloth under the cold tap. “I did something really fucking stupid, petit. And I need you to help me fix it.”
What are you talking about? Brandon brought the washcloth to him, then knelt again, leaning forward to press the wet rag against his brow. When Rene jerked, sucking in a quick, hissing breath, Brandon winced. I’m sorry.
“That’s all right. I got it,” Rene said, taking the washcloth from Brandon and holding it gingerly against his face. He glanced around the room. “Where’s Lina?”
She went for her morning run, Brandon replied. She just left a little while ago, but she’s got her cell with her. I can call—
He started to rise again, but Rene caught his arm. “That’s all right, petit. I’d just…” He sighed, glancing toward the window somewhat sheepishly. “I’d just as soon she not find out about this, if at all possible. Her or Tessa. We can just tell them I had car trouble or something, cracked my head on the hood when I popped it. The Jaguar is gone anyway. They won’t know the difference.”
What do you mean, gone? Brandon asked. Rene, what the hell happened?
“Martin got away,” Rene said after a long, shamed moment. Brandon’s eyes widened and he grimaced, nodding. “I know. I know, petit. I went out there to try and get him to help us, you know, like I’d told you before. I thought I could use that ledger Tessa found, all of those bank account records, to blackmail him into contacting the Elders, calling them off somehow. And if that didn’t work…” He gasped as he inadvertently touched a particularly painful place on his head with the washcloth. “If that didn’t work, I brought my pistol along. Figured I’d cut our losses if he wasn’t willing to play ball.”
What happened? Brandon asked.
Rene shook his head. “The son of a bitch clubbed me. I untied him long enough so he could take a pis
s—you know, making nice with him to get him on our side of things, and he slammed me back against the wall. Grabbed my goddamn gun and pistol-whipped me upside the head.”
Jesus Christ! Brandon exclaimed and Rene nodded grimly.
“Oui. Tell me about it, petit. He got my car keys, too. Took the Jag and tore out of there. I had to fucking hitchhike back here and used my telepathy afterward to wipe out the memory of the driver who gave me a lift. It was too much, too soon.” He winced again, drawing the washcloth back to find the terry cloth stained with blood. “I’m still weak from where Tessa fed from me. Damn near wiped myself out.”
Why did you go up there all by yourself? Brandon asked. He took the rag from Rene and went back to the sink, rinsing it out. You should have grabbed me or Lina, at least. Martin Davenant is next in line to be an Elder—he’s strong and he’s dangerous. He could have killed you.
“He tried awful damn hard, petit,” Rene said, as Brandon returned with the washcloth. “Trust me.” He looked up at the younger man, his expression drawn and grim. “We’ve got to find him, Brandon. He knows where we are. He can lead the Elders right to us.”
If he hasn’t called them already, Brandon said, glancing suddenly, anxiously at the window and door.
Rene shook his head. “He hasn’t. He doesn’t have the balls. Not with that ledger in his hands. If your grandfather finds out about that book, he’ll string Martin up. Martin took it from me and I know where he’s going—back to Kentucky. Back to the farm. Then he’ll call his daddy and the Elders, tell them all about us.”
How do you know that? Brandon asked, raising his brow.
“Because, petit,” Rene replied with a wink and a humorless smile. “A little birdie told me. I sent the birds out to look for him—just like I did to find Tessa. I saw through their eyes; I watched his car get on highway 58 heading north.”
North? Brandon frowned. Where the hell is he going?
“My guess is Reno. He can ditch the car there and get a plane ticket for Kentucky. Be home by dark.” He met Brandon’s gaze. “Which means the Elders can be here by the morning, petit, unless we stop him.”
Brandon nodded once. Tell me what we need to do.
“Did Lina take the Mercedes keys with her?” Rene asked, and when Brandon shook his head, he said, “Good. Toss them here.” He set the washcloth aside, wincing as he rose slowly, stiffly to his feet. “I’m driving.”
They drove north, diverting onto Highway 395 toward Reno and heading into the arid, high desert countryside of Nevada north of Carson City. They’d been on the road for little more than a half hour, when Rene suddenly veered the Mercedes off course, turning damn near one hundred and eighty degrees around onto the southbound Highway 429.
What is it? Brandon thought, leaning forward, frowning as he peered out the windshield.
“What the fuck is he doing?” Rene murmured, also frowning. When Brandon glanced at him, curious, he said, “I’m trying to track him in my mind, using the birds. He’s up ahead here a little ways. He’s pulled off the road, turned into some kind of parking lot. Looks like warehouses or something.”
He stopped the car, pulling the Mercedes off onto the soft shoulder of the highway and closed his eyes, pressing his fingertips against his brow. “Not warehouses,” he said after a moment. “Hangars. Airport hangars.” He looked over at Brandon. “He’s not going to the Reno airport. He’s going to some pissant little mom-and-pop one. He must mean to charter a plane.” He closed his eyes again, his brows narrowed, but after a moment, he shook his head, uttering a quiet, frustrated cry. “Goddamn it! I lost him. I can’t seem to keep focused. I’m still too weak.”
I don’t think it’s you. Brandon studied the road ahead of them, still frowning. I’m having trouble, too. I’m getting all kinds of weird sensations. I know he’s near us, just up ahead somewhere. I can feel him. But it’s different. He, too, touched his head, his frown deepening. I feel like he’s blocking me somehow. Maybe blocking us both.
“Can he do that, petit?” Rene asked when Brandon turned his way. “He’s strong enough?”
I don’t know, Brandon replied. I told you—he’s the oldest Davenant son, next in line to be named an Elder. That means he’s pretty damn strong. And if he stopped along the way to feed off someone, then it means his powers are even stronger, at least for the moment.
His expression grew apprehensive. I don’t know if we can take him, Rene. If he’s strong enough to block our telepathy…
“I know we can,” Rene cut in, leaning forward and pulling the Sig Sauer from the waistband of his jeans, where he’d tucked it at the small of his back. He showed it to Brandon with a thin smile. “I don’t need telepathy.”
They drove again, following the two-lane highway south until they saw the airport ahead of them on the left, little more than an outdated control tower and a couple of blacktopped runways crisscrossing a broad expanse of sagebrush-dusted plain. Three large hangars, each Quonset hut–shaped and constructed of corrugated metal, flanked one another along the far side of a small adjacent parking lot. Here, even from a distance, Rene and Brandon could see Martin’s maroon Jaguar parked in the midmorning sun.
“I don’t see him anywhere.” Rene had again stopped the car along the highway, and they had both climbed out. They stood side by side next to the Mercedes, shielding their eyes with their hands and surveying the landscape. “You got a feel for him, petit?”
Brandon had been watching Rene as he spoke, reading his lips, and shook his head, averting his gaze back to the trio of hangars. Nothing. It’s like I’ve run into a brick wall. Can you send a bird or two down there to scope things out?
Rene shook his head. No. I’m with you—nothing but a wall. Goddamn it, he’s blocking us somehow. He must have known we’d find a way to follow him, track his sorry ass down.
So what do we do now? Brandon asked, and Rene glanced at him with a wry smile.
“Offhand, I say we go down there and you use a little of that aikido shit to start things off. Then, whenever you get tired, I’ll introduce him to ol’ Betsy here.” Again, he pulled out the pistol, giving it a demonstrative little waggle. “How does that sound, petit?”
Brandon grinned. Fine by me.
Rene parked the Mercedes in the airport parking lot, observing a modest, wary distance from the Jaguar. There was still no sign of Martin; no sign of anyone, in fact. There were small propeller planes parked here and there with wheel blocks to hold them fast. A bright orange windsock flapped and waved in the breeze, but otherwise there was nothing; not a sound, not a hint of anything stirring. All of the hangar doors were closed, the tower windows dark.
Rene looked around, turning in an uneasy circle, the nine millimeter gripped lightly in his hand. “This place is a goddamn ghost town,” he muttered.
Over there. Brandon pointed to one of the hangars. Look, Rene. There’s a sign on that side door that says “office.” You think that’s where he went?
Rene thumbed the safety off on the pistol. I think it’s as good a place as any to start, petit. Let’s go.
They walked together into the shadow-draped hangar. Although there were light fixtures dangling from the rafters, none had been turned on and the narrow windows close to the ceiling provided only dim hints of illumination. Seven planes were parked inside the broad belly of the building, six smaller, propeller-powered charter planes and one large, sleek, glistening private jet parked at the far end of the room.
Do you see anything? Brandon asked, frowning as he glanced around. I have a really weird feeling about this, Rene. I—
Rene caught him sharply by the arm, drawing his mental voice short. When Brandon looked at him, his brows raised, Rene nodded to indicate the jet. Voices, he said in his mind. I hear people talking. They’re inside that plane.
He moved forward, striding briskly but quietly across the room, ducking and weaving in and among the planes.
Rene, wait. Brandon followed, his footsteps nearly silent against the smooth c
oncrete floor.
No way, petit, Rene replied, his brows furrowed, his mouth turned down in a frown. That son of a bitch isn’t getting away. Not again. Not this time, goddamn it.
Rene, wait, Brandon said again. Something’s not right. I can feel it. I just—
As the younger man thought this, they rounded the tail of one of the charter prop planes, just in time to see Martin Davenant emerging from the jet. He started to walk down the steel steps while speaking to someone, a man who stepped out of the plane almost immediately behind him.
Rene froze and heard Brandon skitter to a halt behind him, his breath cutting abruptly, sharply short. Another man stepped onto the stairs leading down from the jet behind Martin, then another and another and another—ten of them altogether, all men in their late forties or early fifties dressed nearly identically in dark, well-tailored, crisply pressed suits.
Oh, Jesus, Brandon gasped inside of Rene’s head, his voice shrill and panicked. Oh, Christ, oh, fuck me, Rene—it’s the Elders! For Christ’s sake, run!
Rene whirled just in time to see Brandon take off, racing across the hangar floor away from the jet. He followed, hoping like hell his prosthetic knee didn’t fail him now as his feet slapped a heavy, hurried cadence against the floor.
Rene, come on! Brandon reached the door first and shoved against the bar, spilling a broad beam of daylight in as he pushed it open. Jesus Christ, Rene, we’ve got to—
He turned around and Rene shot him.
The nine-millimeter slug caught him in the right shoulder—almost exactly where he’d been shot only weeks earlier—and knocked him a good foot and a half backward, if not more. Brandon floundered, his knees buckling, his hand darting to his chest, and he blinked at Rene in wide-eyed, openmouthed bewilderment and shock.
