Dark Passages: Tristan & Karen

by Reinke, Sara

  He could feel his shirt sticking to his skin between his shoulder blades and beneath his arms with sweat. When he shoved his hair back from his face, his fingers shaking anxiously, he found it damp too.

  I’m coming, Mason, he thought as he reached the top of the stairs. Raising the ax above his shoulder, poised at the ready, he prepared himself to batter down the steel door. To his surprise, when he pushed against the latch, he found it unlocked, and it swung wide obligingly, letting in a sudden cool burst of nighttime air.

  Cautiously, cutting his gaze in a broad arc, he stepped out onto the roof. Gravel crunched underfoot. Moths danced and flitted in the broad swath of illumination cast by a bright, glaring security bulb mounted directly above his head. Tristan’s shadow first pooled beneath him, then stretched out long, taffylike, as he broke away from the threshold. Spotlights had been strategically positioned around the ground level of both towers to showcase the grand-opening spectacle, and their pale beams speared up and into the sky, reaching seemingly into infinity overhead.

  He grasped the handle of the ax lightly in both hands and crept forward, panning his gaze, squinting to peer into the heavy shadows all around him.

  I’ll be waiting on the roof, Jean Luc had told him, offering no other specifics besides this. When he saw no hint of movement, no other signs of life except that nagging, electrified sensation simmering beneath his skin, he frowned.

  “I’m here,” he called out. Pivoting in a slow circle, he made certain to double-check behind him. “Hey, Davenant. I’m here. Come on out.”

  I’ve got a little surprise for you, he thought with a humorless smile, shifting his grip on the ax handle.

  From his left, behind a tangle of pipes and vent shafts, he heard a low groan. Mason, he realized, turning smoothly on his heel and racing in the direction of the sound.

  “Mason,” he shouted. “Mason, I’m coming. I’m…”

  His voice faltered as he ducked beneath some conduits and caught sight of his uncle below. “Oh, Jesus,” he whispered, stricken, the ax nearly tumbling from his fingers in his horrified shock.

  He scrambled around the remaining pipes to reach the straight-backed wooden chair to which Mason had been bound. He’d been hog-tied, his wrists lashed together behind him, connected with a taut strap of rope to similar bindings around his ankles. His shirt had been torn open, the dark panels splayed wide to reveal the pale skin of his chest, which stood out in ghoulish and apparent contrast to the massive amounts of blood that were smeared down his torso and abdomen.

  “Mason!” Dropping the ax, Tristan fell to his knees in front of his uncle. Mason’s head had drooped down, his chin nearly to his chest, and Tristan lifted his face, cradling it between his hands. He’d been savagely beaten, his face battered and scraped into a bloodied, bruised, and nearly unrecognizable mess. At first, Tristan couldn’t even tell if Mason was breathing or not, until he leaned forward, frantic, terrified, and felt blood bubble out from between his uncle’s lips to pepper his cheek.

  “Mason, can you hear me?” Using one hand to hold Mason’s head up, Tristan used the pad of his thumb to gently peel back his eyelid. Mason groaned again, faint and feeble, but otherwise remained unresponsive. There was still no sign of Jean Luc, and Tristan rose to his feet long enough to backpedal and retrieve the ax.

  “Hang on,” he said, even though Mason’s chin had fallen once more and he sat, lank, limp and still in his bonds. “I’m going to get you out of here, Mason. Just hang on.”

  He squatted behind the chair, holding the ax near the top of the shaft so he could saw at the ropes with the razor-sharp edge of the blade. He caught a glimpse of something small and white lying in a puddle of blood on the ground. Frowning, he reached for it.

  Oh, Jesus, he thought, his eyes widening as he lifted in hand what looked like a tooth that had been forcibly pulled from its socket—a canine tooth, too unnaturally elongated to have come from anyone human.

  “Jesus Christ.” He gasped aloud when he saw a second tooth, torn free and discarded, on the ground beneath Mason’s chair. Beside it, hidden beneath the shadows of the chair seat from immediate view, was a pair of pliers.

  On his hands and knees, he scuttled back to face his uncle, again cupping Mason’s face between his hands.

  “Mason,” he whispered, stricken and dismayed. Gently, gingerly, he touched Mason’s mouth, easing his upper lip back. When he saw the ruins of Mason’s mouth, the bloody, raw, ragged holes at the outermost edge of his upper palate, he uttered a soft, anguished cry. “Oh, God, what did he do to you?”

  Mason’s eyelids fluttered, then opened to a bleary half-mast. “Tristan…” His voice was ragged, little more than a croak.

  “I’m here.” Tristan leaned forward, kissing his brow, smoothing his blood-matted hair back from his face. “I’m here, Mason,” he said again, on the verge of tears. “It’s all right now. Hang on. I’m going to get you out of…”

  He fell silent, bewildered, as his hand slipped to the side of Mason’s neck and he felt something there, torn flesh and damp warmth beneath. As he drew his fingers away, he saw a pair of dime-sized wounds, parallel to each other, that had been punched into the meat of his uncle’s neck.

  “Tristan,” Mason whispered again just as Tristan realized, to his horror:

  Holy shit, Davenant fed from him!

  “Get…out of here…” Mason pleaded. But even as the words were out of his mouth, Tristan felt the air around him abruptly collapse, like a gigantic invisible hand clamping fiercely around him, hoisting him into the air.

  He didn’t even have time to cry out. In an instant, he was airborne, hurtling backward at an unbelievable rate of speed, slamming hard into a cinderblock wall. He struck hard enough to snap ribs; he felt them go at about the same time as he heard the telltale crunch, and a bright swell of molten agony ripped through his torso, stripping the breath from him. The back of his head smashed into the concrete with enough force to leave him seeing stars. When the telekinetic grip on him relinquished, he collapsed in a heap in the pool of pale security light, facedown and groaning.

  For a long moment, there was nothing but the pain and the dizzying sensation as his poor mind tried not to swim away into shadows. Clapping his hand to his brow, he tried to sit up but bit back a cry as pain lanced through his injured chest for the effort.

  Then he heard the soft crunch of shoe soles against the cold, hard surface of the roof. His vision bleary, his mind reeling, he looked up to see a man walking toward him. At first more silhouette than discernable form, he was tall and lean, his gait comfortable and leisurely. When he stepped into the circumference of light and it spilled over his face, Tristan saw dark hair swept back from his face and dark eyes framed with murderous intensity by low-slung brows.

  The man approached, then squatted down next to Tristan. Reaching down, he closed his fist in Tristan’s hair, wrenching his head back, nearly ripping his scalp raw. Tristan gritted his teeth against another anguished cry as the sudden movement sent another shudder of pain through his shattered ribs.

  “My God, you look just like your father,” Jean Luc Davenant remarked, the ferocity in his gaze contrasted by the gentle uplift to the corner of his mouth. With a chuckle, he leaned over. “Oh, I am going to enjoy this,” he promised, his lips and breath brushing with obscene intimacy as he whispered into Tristan’s ear. “Each and every excruciating moment.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  If only I’d brought my gun, Karen thought as she shouldered her way through the crowd of party guests in the tower lobby. Not that she made a habit of traveling with the .257 within ready reach, like she was Annie Oakley or something, but because she felt naked and vulnerable without something even remotely resembling a weapon in her hands.

  “Slow down, ma chérie,” Michel had said to her over the phone. “I can’t understand you. What’s happened? Tell me what’s wrong.”

  She’d still been tearful but choked down her sobs, dragged her hands across her chee
ks to dry them, and forced herself to get her shit together. “Jean Luc Davenant’s here,” she’d said. “He’s here in Las Vegas. He must have followed us somehow. I don’t know. But he’s taken Mason.”

  “Where’s Tristan?” Michel had said, his voice edged with an uncharacteristic frenetic anxiety that bordered on outright panic.

  “He’s gone to help Mason,” she’d replied.

  “What?” Michel’s voice had scraped up shrill octaves.

  “Davenant told him to meet them on top of the second resort tower.”

  “Mon Dieu,” Michel had breathed from the other end of the line, clearly stricken. My God.

  “His powers aren’t working, Michel,” she’d told him. “He told us earlier, he’s taken some medication Brandon Noble told him about to control his bloodlust, and it’s dampened his telepathy somehow, his telekinesis. He’s going in there blind.”

  “Mon Dieu,” Michel had whispered again. “How long ago did he leave?”

  “Not long. Maybe five, ten minutes.”

  There was a momentary silence, and she’d been acquainted with him long enough to guess as to what he was doing out of habit—pacing, combing his fingers through his hair, tugging anxiously at his beard. At length, he’d spoken again, but this time, his voice was small, pleading. “You can still catch him, then.”

  “What?” Karen had blinked stupidly.

  “I’m leaving now,” Michel had told her, and sure enough, she’d heard the jingle of car keys, the rustle of fabric as he’d hurriedly dressed. “I’ll get there as soon as I can, but Tristan needs help now. Run after him, Karen. Stop him if you can.”

  How am I supposed to do that? she’d wanted to ask, because nobody knew better than Michel that Tristan was difficult, impossible even, to dissuade once he’d set his mind on something.

  “Tell him I’m coming,” Michel had said. “I’m on my way. But hurry, Karen. You have to go now. You have to catch him.”

  “What about Davenant?” Karen had already been on her feet and in motion, rushing back to the bedroom and throwing open her bag, grabbing the sweater and jeans she’d worn on the plane. Wriggling, hopping from one foot to the other, and strategically ducking her head, she’d managed to re-dress while keeping the phone tucked to her ear as she spoke. “Mason said he’s after me, that you and Naima found him last night in the woods by my house.”

  “Quoi?” Michel had asked. What?

  She’d paused, balancing heronlike on one leg as she’d crammed her shoes back on. “That’s why we came here,” she’d said slowly, puzzled by his reaction, the bewilderment she’d heard in his voice. “To Las Vegas. Mason said you’d told him to take me away from the compound to keep me safe.”

  From the other end of the phone, she’d heard a soft, almost rueful chuckle. Then Michel had said, “Ma chérie, I’ve no doubt that Mason wanted to keep you in safe company.”

  There had been a peculiar edge to his words, and she’d frowned. “But…” she’d said, letting the word draw out for a prolonged moment. “That’s not why Mason brought me along, is it?”

  With sudden horror, she’d realized. It’s not me. It hasn’t been me all along. Jean Luc Davenant wasn’t in the woods watching my house—watching me.

  She shoved her way into the first crowded but available elevator car she could find, and watched in growing dismay as other passengers pushed buttons, lighting up nearly every floor between the lobby and the roof.

  It’s going to take me forever to get up there, she thought, pressing her lips together to stifle a groan. It was hot and cramped once the doors slid closed, with everyone knocking shoulders, jockeying for space. The intermingling smells of perfume, cologne, champagne, and sweat hung stagnant in the air.

  But hopefully it’s taking Tristan that long too, she thought, watching anxiously as the numbers lit up in a row above the doors, marking the progress of their ascent. God, I hope so. Please let me reach him in time.

  ****

  Tristan cried out, breathless and choked, as he slammed into the ground, landing heavily in front of Mason’s chair. He’d lost count of how many times Jean Luc had thrown him telekinetically, or how many walls he’d smashed into.

  He heard the scuff of Jean Luc’s footsteps drawing near, and uttered a soft, miserable groan as the other man snatched a fistful of his hair again and jerked, craning his head back, forcing the ends of his shattered ribs to grind together. To that point, he hadn’t fought back, hadn’t been able to, but furious determination welled up in him. With a ragged cry, he rammed his elbow back, catching Jean Luc squarely in the gut, forcing him to stagger breathlessly backward.

  Even though it hurt, Tristan forced himself to move, to roll over, scramble to his feet. He didn’t give Davenant the chance to recover his wind or wits, and swung his fist around, plowing his knuckles into the bridge of his nose. Jean Luc’s head snapped back on his neck and he stumbled, crashing down onto his ass.

  “You…son of a bitch,” Tristan said, reaching down, grabbing the fire ax from near Mason’s chair where he’d left it. Hoisting it above his head, clasping the handle between both hands, he readied himself to swing it down, to bury the broad blade into the dead center of Jean Luc’s forehead. “You son of a—”

  Jean Luc may not have had his telekinetic powers long, but he wielded them with brutal abandon. As if struck headlong by an invisible Mack truck, Tristan flew backward, plowed away from Jean Luc, the ax knocked from his hands. More ribs splintered as again he struck the wall, but before he could even hit the ground, he was jerked forward, an unwilling marionette pulled in relentless, unwavering tow back to Mason’s chair, back to where he’d started.

  “You’ve got fire in you, poppet,” Jean Luc remarked with a laugh, smirking even as he touched the now crooked, swollen tip of his nose, his fingertips coming away smeared with blood. “I’ll give you that.”

  Tristan grunted, breathless, as invisible hands hoisted him aloft, dangling him at least a foot off the ground, then forced his arms out in a cruciform posture. Slowly, he rotated in a semicircle, coming around to face his uncle.

  “Such a pity to have to extinguish it,” Davenant said. Then Tristan screamed as his left arm abruptly twisted into an unnatural shape, new joints seeming to form as bones simultaneously snapped beneath his skin like dry-rotted wood at Jean Luc’s mental command.

  “Tristan!” Mason cried out, twisting against his bonds. He was too weak from blood loss to summon any of his own telepathic or telekinetic abilities; his physical strength had been stripped to nearly that of a newborn kitten.

  Once released from Jean Luc’s telekinetic hold, Tristan crashed to the ground, landing on his belly, shuddering with pain as he tried vainly to move his shattered arm.

  “What do you say, Mason?” Jean Luc’s voice was still filled with irrepressible, sadistic good cheer, and with a loud stomp, he planted one foot on either side of Tristan, so he squatted, straddling the younger man. “Shall I bleed him here in front of you? He’s young yet, his blood still sweet, I’m willing to bet.” The corners of his mouth turned down in a grimace, and he spat. “Not like yours.”

  “Please.” Mason gasped. “Whatever you want…I’m right here. Do it to me. The boy is no part of this.”

  “He’s every goddamn part of this,” Jean Luc seethed. “A brother for a brother, Mason. A son for a son. That’s the oath I swore to my father and the rest of my kin. I thought we’d settled that debt in 1815 when we torched your family’s home to the ground—with the miserable lot of you presumably inside. Imagine our surprise to recently learn, then, of your survival.”

  He wrenched against Tristan’s hair again, making him cry out. “Did you know, poppet, that in the year 1793, when I was little more pup than you are now, my brother Victor stood in a duel where Michel Morin was his opponent’s second? Though he drew first blood, Victor took a shot in the chest and Michel, foregoing his own oath as a Brethren healer, left him in the field to die in disgrace. And then this son of a bitch”
—again yanking Tristan’s hair, Jean Luc forced him to look at Mason—“was called to tend to Victor in his father’s stead. Only he failed.”

  “I’m sorry.” Mason gasped. “I…I’ve told you…the damage was too great. There was nothing I could do. I tried…”

  “Victor was a good man, a loyal son, a loving brother!” Jean Luc shouted, cutting him short. “You let him linger there for twenty-three minutes, writhing in pain, before his lungs filled with blood and he drowned!”

  He opened his hand, and Tristan crumpled to the pavement. Lifting his head, weak and dazed, he watched Jean Luc approach Mason’s chair.

  He’s crazy, he thought dimly. Just like Naima said: feral psychosis. He’s drained Mason nearly dry and hasn’t fed from one of us before. It’s affecting his mind, making him delusional.

  “And for each of those twenty-three minutes, I plan to enjoy ten years’ worth of vengeance against the both of you.” Jean Luc began to pace, slow, slinking circles treacherously close to Mason’s seat, directing his comments in a low purr. “I’m going to take my time with your pretty little poppet, break him measure by measure, until there’s nothing left but form and flesh—his mind so scarred and scraped hollow from two hundred and thirty years of relentless, unimaginable torment, he’ll never recover. And then when I’m finished—when I’ve fed from him, fucked him, and had my fill of him in any other possibly conceivable fashion—I’ll send him home to you and Michel with a bow around his neck and a tube to feed him through. Because the two of you let Victor die. A brother for a brother. A son for a son. That’s what I mean to collect tonight.”

  Tristan laughed, ignoring the pain that shot through his torso for the effort. Jean Luc froze in midstep and both he and Mason blinked at him in mutual, stupefied surprise.

  “You need…to get off the farm more often, hayseed,” he rasped. “My father…has been dead for more than thirty years.”

  When Jean Luc continued looking at him, his expression caught somewhere between incredulous and furious, he couldn’t help himself and laughed again. “Surprise, dipshit. Arnaud Morin shot himself in the head…at some piss-rot motel in the French Quarter…in 1975.”