Dark Passages: Tristan & Karen

by Reinke, Sara

  Although she’d never admit it aloud, she’d been deeply hurt when she learned of the aborted elopement—so much so, she’d nearly quit the clinic. She’d typed up her letter of resignation in her fit of wounded outrage. Only her father’s voice inside her mind had stopped her from turning it in, a patient cadence and gentle words she remembered fondly from her youth:

  “Your mother and I, we didn’t raise any quitters, Kay.”

  Although her father was in Manhattan, Kansas—three states and two time zones away—he’d still been able to impart wisdom upon her. In the end, Karen had shoved the letter in the glove compartment and forgotten about it—until now.

  “So do you want a ride?” Tristan asked again.

  Forcing herself to smile despite bright patches of hot, humiliated color blazing in her cheeks, she said, “That’s okay. I…I can walk.”

  He cocked his head. “You sure?”

  “Yeah. It’s not far.”

  “But…” It was his turn to look uncertain. “It’s cold.”

  “I don’t mind.” All at once, Karen wanted to get the hell out of there, because she’d been through this before—the big brush-off—with ex-boyfriends galore. She’d come to expect it from just about every man she felt attracted to anymore.

  But not you, Tristan, she thought, pressing her lips together in a strained line. God, I never would have expected it from you. Not in a million years.

  “Let me at least get you a coat, then.” When he stood, his expression looked sheepish. He could read her thoughts if he wanted, and though she had no way of knowing whether his mind was open to her, he wasn’t blind or deaf. He saw the tears in her eyes, heard the damnable warble in her voice.

  “No, thanks.” She bee-lined for the door, T-shirt, miniskirt, and bare legs be damned. But he could move impossibly fast when he wanted to, another Brethren benefit, and with a sudden blur out of the corner of her eye, he beat her to it, blocking her path.

  “Karen.” In that moment, he looked for all the world like a lost little boy, vulnerable, wounded to the core. His mouth opened slightly, as if he meant to speak, but then catching himself and thinking better of it, he pressed his lips together. She’d lost him again.

  Not that I’d ever had him, she thought sadly. That much was painfully obvious.

  “Here,” he said at length, reaching for a coat rack just beyond the front door. His parka hung here, black and down-filled, and he slipped it from the hook. For a moment, he leaned toward her, close enough for her to feel the warmth radiating from his skin as he drew the coat around her shoulders. “There’s frost outside.”

  Didn’t last night mean anything to you, Tristan? she thought helplessly, swatting at a tear as it rolled down her cheek before he might notice. Don’t I?

  Abruptly he drew back, not just leaning away, but backpedaling as if he’d smelled something offensive or she’d slapped him in the face. The gesture hurt her more than any words or physical blows ever could have, and with a frown, she shoved the coat off, letting it fall heavily to the floor.

  “Keep it. I’ll be fine,” she assured him drily. Hoping he was listening, that he could hear the venom in her thoughts, she added: It’s the frost in here that’s getting to me, anyway.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Smooth, Tristan told himself after Karen had left, slamming the front door behind her. From the other side, as she’d hurried away, he could have sworn he’d heard her utter a soft, shuddering sob. She’s crying. Terrific. And the Asshole of the Year award now officially belongs to me.

  He forked his fingers through his hair, not missing the fact that his hand was shaking. Even that momentary closeness to her as he’d put his coat around her shoulders had been enough to stir the bloodlust in him.

  God, she smells good, he’d thought, closing his eyes and allowing himself a luxurious split second to breathe her scent in deeply. It had been all he could do not to draw her into his arms, to nuzzle beneath the warm shelf of her chin and let his hands fall against the soft swells of her breasts. In an instant, he’d wanted her, had been ready to take her again, this time right there on the floor of his entryway; to feel her long legs twine around him again, to listen to her soft, breathless sounds of pleasure as she moved beneath him. He’d wanted her so badly—body and blood—that he’d physically recoiled from her, forcing himself to move, to stumble backward, lest he lose control again.

  As he picked his parka off the floor and returned it to the hook by the door, he noticed he could still discern her in the air. Leaning forward, he sniffed the coat experimentally, but it hadn’t been against her body long enough to capture her fragrance.

  Then where is that coming from? Puzzled, he glanced around and caught sight of something white in a rumpled pile on the floor by his sofa. Karen’s blouse.

  Goddamn it, Tristan thought with a scowl as he tromped over to retrieve it. He snatched it, then held it out away from him, like it was a dead rat he’d discovered in his pantry. I can’t keep this in my house, not even in the trash outside. I’ll go crazy from her scent.

  While one side of his house was flanked with windows, against another, a broad creek-stone fireplace had been constructed. He had at least a half cord of firewood stacked outside, which he’d cut himself and left to season some six months earlier.

  I’ll burn it, he thought, balling the blouse in his hands and marching toward the fireplace. But just as he reached the hearth, he paused, looking down at the wadded tangle of white silk.

  God, I never would have expected it from you, he’d heard Karen think as he’d broken her heart. Not in a million years.

  You don’t understand, he thought, wishing he could explain to her, make things right for her somehow. I can’t be with you again, Karen. I shouldn’t have been with you last night, but I lost my head…lost my senses. That’s what happens when I’m around you too long with nothing like work to distract me.

  He drew the tattered remains of Karen’s blouse momentarily to his face, closed his eyes, and remembered the warmth of her skin, the salty sweetness of her kiss, the intoxicating musk of her blood.

  Why did I do that? Why did I have to go and sleep with her? he thought, even though he knew the answer. Ever since his mother’s death, he’d felt grief-stricken and alone, as if someplace vital inside of him had been scraped empty and raw. He’d been vulnerable, lonely, in need of comfort, companionship. In need of Karen.

  I still need her, he realized, then frowned. With an angry cry, he threw the shirt into the fireplace, then turned and headed for the door. He was bare chested and barefoot, and the frost-crusted grass crunched beneath the soles of his feet. In an instant, his breath frosted in the air, framing his face in a dim halo, and he strode around the corner, heading for the woodpile in his back yard.

  ****

  Karen’s house was less than 200 yards from Tristan’s, but along a zigzagging path cut by the gravel road, or more directly if she went through the dense pine woods between them. On some winter mornings, she could see the hint of smoke from his chimney, or the glint of sunlight off his windshield or truck mirrors as he’d pull in or out of his driveway.

  One of her shoe heels broke en route, the spindly columns ill equipped for cross-country trekking. She fell as her footing gave way, skinning her palms and knees, and then limped and hobbled the rest of the miserable way, cursing Tristan under her breath all the while.

  Once home, she kicked off her ruined shoes and crammed them both unceremoniously into the kitchen trash. Then, because she could still smell his damned cologne in his T-shirt, she yanked it off and threw it into her fireplace.

  I’m not going to cry again, she told herself firmly as she squatted in front of the hearth. I’m not going to cry, goddamn it. I’m not going to cry over him anymore.

  She’d been no more than a half step out his door before bursting into tears, hating herself for it but helpless to prevent it. Pressing her lips together to muffle the sound, she’d staggered, nearly blinded by tears, down the st
eps of his front stoop. It had been cold out, and she’d spent the duration of her hike home miserable, hiccupping and shivering.

  In a small metal bin beside the hearth, she kept a ready stock of firewood. She’d split it herself only a few weeks earlier, wearing blisters into the pads of her palms from gripping the ax handle so fiercely. Tristan had noticed, asked about them, then laughed when she’d explained.

  “Why didn’t you just ask me to do it?” he’d asked, the unspoken implication being that as a woman, she was utterly incapable of tending to something like chopping firewood on her own. She’d considered telling him that she’d once split firewood on a regular basis on her father’s cattle farm growing up—along with driving a tractor, pitching hay, shoveling cow shit, and tending to dozens of other chores he’d undoubtedly consider man’s work.

  “He’s an asshole,” she muttered, tossing wood into the fireplace, pinning the T-shirt beneath. She struck a match and used it for kindling, watching the white cotton first smolder, then spark, then at length begin to burn.

  Good riddance, she thought, and because the chill in the air had caused goose bumps to rise, she stood up, wrapping her arms around herself as she went to the bathroom. Here, she ran the hot tap in her cedar-lined shower until the narrow room was filled with thick steam.

  She stepped beneath the nozzle and drew the curtain shut behind her, closing her eyes as the stinging spray immediately pelted the top of her head. She began to wash, rubbing soap into a sudsy lather between her hands and then grinding it into her skin with a ferocious sort of determination.

  I want to wash it away—everything that happened last night. Every place he touched me, kissed me.

  Tilting her head back, she opened her mouth wide and let the shower flood her cheeks. She spit, then repeated, because she could remember the flavor of his mouth, the heat of his breath, the urgent insistence—the unrestrained desire—she’d felt in his kiss. With her eyes closed, she could remember the way he sounded, his voice, ragged with need: “Tell me to stop.” When he’d come inside her, he’d uttered a low, breathless cry, his entire body going rigid behind her, his fingers clamping fiercely, reflexively against her own.

  It had been the best sex of her entire life. Just like she’d always imagined it would be with him.

  Damn you, Tristan.

  ****

  Tristan had lied to Karen. He didn’t have a damn thing going on that morning, except for being due to work at the clinic by noon. By the time he arrived, his first—and likely only—patient of the day was waiting for him: Brandon Noble.

  Like Tristan, Brandon was full-blooded Brethren. He’d recently suffered serious burns on his face and torso, but thanks to his birthright and the accelerated healing abilities that came with it, he’d recovered quickly, with no scars to show for the suffering. At least, none that were visible.

  “I hate to tell you this.” He made sure to look the younger man directly in the eye when speaking. Although telepathic like Tristan, Brandon was deaf and mute. When not spoken to directly through his mind, he could read lips. After a long moment spent looking solemnly at Brandon, Tristan smiled. “But you’re going to be just fine.”

  For no other reason than he hated the idea of wrapping up so soon, and being otherwise alone for the rest of the afternoon, Tristan had put Brandon through his medical paces, practicing all the standard routines and then some—eye exam, ears, EKG, CBC, anything he could think of to kill some time and occupy his attention, keep his mind off of Karen.

  Brandon had looked worried until Tristan smiled; then he laughed soundlessly. Thanks to you, he said telepathically. He started buttoning his shirt as Tristan turned to make a quick note in his medical chart, then asked hesitantly, Would you be able to write me a prescription?

  Puzzled, Tristan glanced over his shoulder. You should be okay. That Z-Pak I put you on prophylactically keeps working for five days past the last dose.

  No. Brandon shook his head, then cut his eyes away. It’s just, we’re leaving today. When Tristan raised a curious brow, he elaborated. Me and Lina. We’re flying down to Miami, then renting a car, visiting her mom for a while, at least six weeks. She’s been really sick…

  Tristan nodded, interjecting. Breast cancer. Lina told me.

  Brandon looked momentarily toward the examination room door, beyond which Lina Jones, his human girlfriend, sat waiting for him. I know Lina’s been really worried about her.

  Because his own mother’s funeral had been only the day before, Tristan managed a pained smile. I can imagine.

  Brandon blinked at Tristan and, to judge by his suddenly sheepish expression, realized his faux pas. I’m sorry, I didn’t…, he began.

  Tristan shook his head. It’s all right.

  Anyway, it’s just… With a sigh, Brandon raked his fingers through the crown of his hair, then hopped down from the examination table. Back in Kentucky, I was taking these pills. My friend Jackson got them for me in his name, had them shipped to the great house. I’m not really planning to head back that way anytime soon.

  Tristan leaned back against the counter, his curiosity piqued. “What kind of pills?” he asked aloud, which made Brandon cut his eyes uneasily again toward the waiting room.

  Wellbutrin, Brandon said.

  Are you a smoker? Tristan asked, and Brandon shook his head, visibly puzzled.

  Wellbutrin’s an antidepressant, Tristan explained. It’s frequently prescribed to help people quit smoking, to ease the withdrawal symptoms.

  With an aha! sort of expression, Brandon nodded. Oh, he said. But that’s not why I need it. Still looking somewhat uneasy, he hesitated for a long moment before continuing. See, last year, I read an article in this magazine about how certain kinds of medicines can cause different side effects. It talked about antidepressants, about how they sometimes cause…

  His voice inside Tristan’s mind faltered. Bewildered, Tristan tried to fill in the blank. Constipation? he asked. Dry mouth? Headache? Wellbutrin blocks the action of acetylcholine, causing what’s called anticholinergic effects…

  Brandon shook his head. Not those. He looked at Tristan, embarrassed, nearly pleading. Sexual side effects. They can inhibit your sex drive.

  Surprised because this was not the answer he was expecting from an otherwise sound and physically normal twenty-one-year-old male—and one with a damn fine-looking girlfriend, at that—Tristan blinked. “What?” he asked, forgetting himself and speaking aloud.

  I don’t want that to happen to me, Brandon said quickly, his eyes flown wide, holding out his hands. That doesn’t happen, not normally. I mean, it hasn’t so far, at least not while me and Lina, we’ve been… Blushing brightly, flustered again, he shoved his fingers through his hair. Look, it helps control the bloodlust, okay? I started taking it because I figured if it could affect one kind of lust, then why not the other?

  Tristan raised his brow, surprised anew. And it worked?

  Brandon nodded. For the most part. I was able to keep it under control, anyway. Back in Kentucky, I didn’t want to go through the bloodletting, feed from humans, so I needed to be able to keep the bloodlust in check.

  But you don’t need to anymore, Tristan told him kindly. You’re with friends now—safe here, Brandon. I keep trying to tell you that. You can feed from any of us whenever you need to.

  But I’m getting ready to leave, Brandon said for the second time in the course of their conversation, and now, all at once, it made sense to Tristan. I’m not going to be around you, not for a while, at least for a month. I’ll be in Florida with Lina and her family. Around humans, Tristan.

  “I see your point,” Tristan remarked thoughtfully.

  That Brandon was terrified of losing control while away from the sanctuary of his fellow Brethren was apparent; even if Tristan hadn’t been able to read his mind, he could see it plainly in his face. And the truth of the matter was, Tristan could sympathize with him completely.

  Because I’ve been trying to fight off the bloodlust
myself over the past twelve hours.

  So would you mind helping me out? Brandon asked. Writing me a prescription?

  With a smile, Tristan clapped him affably on the shoulder. “I’ll do you one better, Brandon,” he said, seeing the perfect opportunity to get away from not only the doldrums afternoon that surely lay in store, but from Karen too. Because I can’t face her again, not today, not after last night. “I’ll go get the pills for you myself.”

  ****

  “You shouldn’t leave your door unlocked.”

  With a startled cry, Karen whirled as she stepped out of the bathroom. Steam still wafted out of the ajar door in her wake, and she’d been holding a towel wrapped around her torso with one hand, swatting her wet hair with another when the sound of a woman’s voice from the living room had stopped her in her tracks.

  “Naima,” she gasped, managing a shaky laugh when she realized her company.

  Naima Morin was Tristan’s half sister, although she was older than him by more than 175 years. Her mother had been a human slave in the Morin family household during the Civil War era, shortly after the Brethren clans had first migrated from their ancestral homes in France. It was Karen’s understanding, to hear tell of things from Michel, that Naima’s mother had been a woman of extraordinary beauty. She found this easy to believe, considering Naima had seemed to inherit this remarkable turn of fortune.

  Catlike and elegant, Naima’s lean, athletic frame was tautly muscled, without a hint of fat or softness. Her skin was the color of milk chocolate, her eyes a shade or two darker, her hair kept short-cropped and close to the contours of her head. She had the kind of aristocratic facial features any super model would envy.

  “You scared me half to death,” Karen told her, readjusting her grasp on the front of her towel before inadvertently flashing the other woman.

  “I didn’t mean to.” Naima smiled as she lounged on Karen’s couch, her long legs extended, her ankles crossed. This comfortable position belied a peculiar strain in her face, however, a sort of visible uneasiness that was uncharacteristic for her and for which Karen had no accounting.