The Brethren - Dark Hunger Part 5

You want to change things? Give me sons."

"One male heir is all that's made them the leading clan," she said. "That's why Augustus didn't just clap his hand over that little b.a.s.t.a.r.d Brandon's mouth all of those years ago and see him smothered when he realized he wouldn't bleed to death. It's why he didn't kill him for defying the bloodletting. He'll keep him alive if only to force him to it. And now Vanessa's given birth to another misbegotten whelp that might make it to adulthood. Two sons-two lucky births, that's all."

Tessa had been frozen with shock, because she'd known that Monica meant her brother Daniel, who had been born only two months earlier.

He'd been the third of Sebastian and Vanessa's sons; in addition to Brandon and Daniel, who was now four, there had been the eldest, Caine. But Caine was dead now; he'd come after Brandon and Lina had killed him. The Elders, including Augustus, were hunting for Brandon with the intent to murder him, which was why they were cutting such a desperate path across the country-to escape the Elders somehow.

But maybe we don't have to. Not now. Not anymore.

The leading Brethren clan-the family that held dominance over all others-had always been determined by the house with the most adult male heirs at any one time, those who had gone through the bloodletting and fed for the first time. For generations that distinction had belonged to the n.o.bles. But because of the mounting fertility problems and infant mortality, over time it had become a slim margin of victory over the other clans, and the Davenants in particular.

"It's only one son who keeps the n.o.bles dominant," Monica had complained that night years earlier. "Until Brandon and Daniel n.o.ble complete the bloodletting-if they complete the bloodletting-that's the only thing keeping Augustus in power. Take out one..." She'd reached over Martin's shoulder, pinching a half-melted ice cube from his drink and tossing it into the fire. "...and he'd have to share with the Davenants. Take out another..." Again, she flicked an ice cube into the flames. "...and your father, Allistair, becomes the lead Elder with the dominant clan-and you next in line when he's gone."

"What do you want me to do?" Martin had griped, moving his gla.s.s out of her reach and cradling it somewhat protectively against his belly. "Walk up to their front door and shoot Caine n.o.ble in the G.o.dd.a.m.n head? You said so yourself-they've got two more of the little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds right in line behind him." He'd slurped the rest of his drink down. "I'd be doing my father the G.o.dd.a.m.n favor, not me."

Now Caine was dead. That left the n.o.bles and Davenants equal in the number of male heirs. Monica had been right; this would mean the two clans would share dominance equally.

But only once word reaches the Elders. They didn't know that Caine was dead. At least, she didn't think they knew. Because if he did, the Grandfather would change his mind, she thought. He'd rescind his order to have Brandon killed.

Eleanor had told Tessa that Allistair Davenant hated Augustus n.o.ble and the feeling had been more than apparently mutual. They would share control of the Brethren as readily as they might have cut off their own b.a.l.l.s, and Brandon would be the key to avoiding that scenario.

The Grandfather needs Brandon now, needs him to complete the bloodletting if the n.o.bles are to be the dominant house.

Caine had slipped away from Kentucky on his own; the Elders might not yet have realized his absence. There was a very strong possibility that they were completely unaware of what had happened.

She glanced at Rene, then lifted her foot off the gas pedal. As the Audi slowed, she pulled over onto the shoulder of the road. The car jostled in the loose gravel, and Rene stirred, groaning and sitting up somewhat.

"What...what is it?" he murmured, blinking dazedly.

"Nothing," she said, opening her car door. "I...I just...I need to stop. I feel sick to my stomach. The baby, I think."

"Oh." He nodded once, his eyelids drooping closed.

Tessa walked around to the back of the car and fished her cell phone out of her pocket. She squatted against the rear b.u.mper so that Rene couldn't see what she was doing clearly if he looked through the side-view mirror. Not that she needed to worry; he'd been out again before she'd even closed the door.

She felt badly for him, and knew she needed to get him to New Mexico so they could meet up with Brandon and get some of Rene's pain medication. She needed to stay on the road, but at the moment, she just couldn't. "I'm sorry, Rene," she whispered as she flipped back the cover to her phone. She thumbed through her address book until she found the number she needed, then hit send.

"Tessa?" Her father, Sebastian, answered his cell phone on the second ring, his voice tinged with static, nearly shrill with alarm.

"Tessa? Is that you?"

He'd recognized her number undoubtedly, and the concern in his tone brought immediate tears to her eyes. "Hi, Dad," she said.

"Yes, it's me."

"Where are you? Is Brandon with you? My G.o.d, we've been worried sick, Tessa, and Martin is-"

"Dad, listen to me," Tessa cut in. "I can't talk long, but you need to know. You need to let the Grandfather know. Caine is dead."

Stunned silence from the other end of the line. "Emily's dead, too," Tessa said, because her younger sister had been with Caine; they had both attacked Brandon and Lina had shot her, as well.

"What?" Sebastian asked, sounding breathless and strained, like she'd just kicked him in the b.a.l.l.s. "How? I...I don't..."

"They followed me to look for Brandon and they...they were killed." Her voice quavered as her tears spilled. "I'm sorry, Dad."

She clapped her hand over her mouth as a little sob escaped her. "I love you."

She hung up on him before he could say anything more, and squatted on the side of the road for a long moment, struggling to compose herself. She hadn't been particularly close to either Caine or Emily, but they'd been her siblings nonetheless, and she hadn't yet allowed herself to mourn for them. She closed her eyes, knowing she'd just broken her father's heart.

But hopefully I just saved Brandon's life.

Although it had been an arrangement dictated by the Elders just after she had been born, she'd been wed to Martin Davenant shortly after her eighteenth birthday, two weeks after her bloodletting. It was supposed to have been Brandon's first kill, as well as her own, but her brother had defied the customs of the Brethren and refused. He'd fled from the bloodletting ceremony and holed up in his tutor, Jackson's guest house on the farm, waiting there until the following morning before returning home to face the Grandfather's wrath.

But it was a wrath that had never come. Terrified of what Augustus would do to Brandon, Tessa had pleaded with her grandmother, Eleanor, and her father, Sebastian, to intercede on Brandon's behalf. As with Eleanor, Augustus had seldom refused their son, and Tessa had desperately hoped that this united front might persuade him to spare Brandon punishment.And it had worked. Brandon's teacher had been fired, an act that had broken her brother's heart, but that had been the extent of any retribution against Brandon. A week later, Eleanor had died. A week after that, Tessa had been s.h.i.+pped off to the Davenant great house to a.s.sume her life as Martin's wife. In retrospect, she wondered if this had been further punishment for her brother; with neither Tessa nor Eleanor remaining in the house, and Sebastian often consumed by his responsibilities to the daily operation of the horse farm, Brandon had been left virtually on his own, his most stalwart champions gone. But while Tessa knew some of the Brethren-including members of their own family-looked down at Brandon and treated him derisively because of his handicaps, she'd never thought that anything truly bad would happen to him. Certainly not from their own grandfather.

But something had happened to Augustus n.o.ble upon Eleanor's death, and whatever soft spot she'd held in his heart had hardened to match the rest. More than just cool and distant, as was his customary demeanor, he'd become vindictive and cruel. Three years later, Tessa had realized to her horror just how much so he could be.

He'd crushed Brandon's hands, shattering the bones and leaving her brother crippled. Tessa had rushed to the great house as soon as she'd learned, and remembered finding Augustus standing before the fireplace in the first floor study upon her arrival.

"How could you?" she'd cried, marching up to him, her eyes flooded with tears, her hands balled into fists. "You...you monster!

How could you do this to Brandon?"

The Grandfather had struck her so hard she'd stumbled sideways and crumpled to her hands and knees, momentary stars dancing in her line of sight. She'd blinked at the floor in silent, absolute shock.

"Watch your mouth, girl," he'd said, his face icily stoic. "Or you'll be laid out along with him."

Only then had she realized he wasn't alone; on the far side of the room, at least five Brethren men stood in a tight and stern-faced ring-Elders from other clans. She recognized one of them in particular, a man with sharp, cold eyes the same shade of steel gray as his hair and a doughy face that tugged the corners of his mouth into a perpetual frown-Allistair Davenant, Martin's father.

"I see it only takes a minute, eh, Augustus?" he remarked, sparing a cool, brittle glance at the Grandfather. "Not two footsteps through your door and your granddaughter forgets her place."

"She's not my granddaughter anymore, Allistair." Augustus had turned his eyes to the fire, his words-his cold dismissal-hurting Tessa more than any physical blow ever could. "She's yours."

Rene woke again as she got back into the car. "You all right, pischouette?" he asked, squinting blearily and wincing as he inadvertently moved his hand.

"Yes." Tessa nodded, m.u.f.fling a sniffle against the back of her hand. She'd already rubbed at her eyes before opening the door, and hoped he couldn't tell she'd been crying. "I...I'm fine. How are you doing?"

He looked bad, pale and haggard, but managed a smile. "Still here." He tried to wiggle the fingers of his wounded hand, but sucked in a hurting breath at the effort.

"Try to rest, Rene," she said and without thinking about it, she reached out and brushed his hair back lightly from his brow. Her fingertips trailed briefly against the side of his face, and he closed his eyes, as if drawing comfort from her touch.

"Sounds good," he murmured, then faded once more.

Chapter Seven.

Rene had met Irene in the fall of 1967, his senior year in high school. He remembered sitting beneath the cool eaves of a magnolia tree on the grounds of Thibodaux High School. It was the first day of cla.s.ses, his lunch break, but he hadn't touched much of the bologna and cheese sandwich his grandmother had packed. Instead, he sat pinching bits of bread loose between his fingertips and flicking them out onto the lawn, where a small finch waited.

He'd lured the bird to him by opening his mind. Although at this point, he was unaware of what exactly he was, and the bloodl.u.s.t hadn't yet come upon him, he knew he was different. It hadn't taken a f.u.c.king rocket scientist. If you could make animals, and birds in particular, do whatever you wanted them to just by thinking about it, you definitely weren't your average, everyday, run-of- the-mill teen in Thibodaux, Louisiana.

He'd been able to summon birds for a long time, since his early childhood. He had always felt like an outsider in the small community he called home and had never had many friends growing up, so the birds had been companions to him. They didn't judge; they didn't care if he was poor, his clothes secondhand, or that his grandmother worked in the local grocery store while his grandfather drew disability. They would come to him, their thoughts innocent and simple; he could close his eyes and have them fly about him in a fluttering swarm, their wings brus.h.i.+ng against him, tickling his flesh and tugging at his hair. He could see through their eyes, hear through their ears and lose himself in their world of sensory perceptions.

The finch hopped closer, its small, dark eyes glittering like polished b.u.t.tons as it drew within a few inches of Rene's foot. He sat with his knees drawn toward his chest, his elbows resting atop, and when he dropped another crumb, the bird darted for it, s.n.a.t.c.hing it up in its beak. Holding its gaze with his own, Rene reached out, a piece of bread balanced on his fingertips. As his hand lowered to the gra.s.s, the bird crept closer, its head turning this way and that, wary and curious, until it stood only millimeters away.

"Oh, my G.o.d!"

The voice was soft, nearly breathless with wonder, but enough to startle both the bird and Rene, snapping the mental bond he'd forged between them. The finch flew away with a sudden rustling of feathers, darting back for the shelter of overhead magnolia limbs.

Rene turned and saw a girl standing behind him, having just ducked her head to walk beneath the tree. He froze, paralyzed, unable to speak, breathe or think clearly.

Mon Dieu, she's beautiful.

She blinked at him, blue eyes wide and filled with wonder. "Did you see that?" she gasped. "That bird almost jumped right into your hand!"

He knew who she was, of course. There wasn't anyone in Thibodaux who didn't recognize Irene Hunt. Her father was president of the Thibodaux branch of Whitney National Bank. While Rene's family was probably the poorest in Lafourche parish, the Hunts were undoubtedly the wealthiest.

Rene stared at her until she giggled, drawing her hand to her face. "Of course you saw it," she said. "It's your hand."

She wore a sleeveless dress in a colorful print of scarlet, black and white horizontal bands with a short hem cut to mid thigh. Her blond hair fell in a heavy sheaf to just below her shoulders, fastened back in a ponytail at the nape of her neck. She wore little discernable makeup, and her face was round, her features gentle and sweet. She smelled good to him, even at a distance, like lavender soap and baby powder.

Mon Dieu, he thought again. She's beautiful.

"Hi," she said with a small, clumsy wave, as if his silence disconcerted her and made her feel shy. "My name's Irene." When he still said nothing-because his throat felt like it had closed, nearly strangling him-her bright expression faltered further. "I...I'm sorry. I didn't mean..." She turned around. "I'll leave you alone."

"No," he said, the word bursting out of his mouth as he forced himself to speak. "No, wait. Don't go."

She turned, smiling hesitantly again, and that was probably the moment he'd fallen in love with her, utterly, hopelessly, helplessly.

"I'm Rene LaCroix," he said, because it would be years yet before he met Arnaud Morin, his father, and a.s.sumed his last name. Irene was new at school that year. Her father had sent her to private schools in Shreveport prior to that, and Rene later learned that it had only been through her near-constant pleading that John Hunt had eventually consented to let his daughter attend public school in the parish.

"You ha.s.sling this young lady, LaCroix?" a loud voice asked, and Gordon Maddox, one year Rene's senior and a good twenty pounds heavier, strode into view, shoving aside tree boughs with his big, meaty fists. His family was wealthy, too; his father was the third-generation owner of the town's leading drug store. Gordon was your garden variety privileged pretty-boy a.s.shole type- quarterback on the football team, president of the student council, homecoming king. All that happy horse s.h.i.+t. He'd bullied Rene since grade school for no reason other than the fact Rene was poor, and Rene had long since lost count of how many times Gordon had punched, pounded, pummeled or otherwise plowed the s.h.i.+t out of him over the years.

"I wouldn't stand too close to this Cajun trash," Gordon had warned Irene as he'd draped his arm around her shoulders. "You might get s.h.i.+t on your pretty dress."

"Funny..." she'd replied, and she'd made a point to deliberately duck away from him. "I was just thinking the same thing about you."

She was fifteen; Rene was seventeen. Because her family would never have approved of their relations.h.i.+p, they spent that academic year meeting in secret, late-night rendezvous. After his graduation, he'd enlisted in the Army, hoping to make enough money to build a life for himself with Irene. Before he'd s.h.i.+pped off to basic training, and from there, to Vietnam, he'd given her an engagement ring, a thin gold band with a chip for a diamond solitaire; the best he could afford. She'd tearfully accepted his proposal, and that more than anything had seen him through his tour of duty at Dong Tam in the Delta.

But he'd returned from Vietnam a changed man in more ways than one, and while Irene had tried her best to make things work between them, Rene knew that it had been impossible. The wound to his gut had left no visible scars, but the damage from his stint in Vietnam had run cruelly and deeply. He'd retreated from her and his family; he'd rejected and repelled anything in his life that might have made him happy. He'd started drinking heavily, the first of many times in his life when he'd turned to the bottom of a liquor bottle for comfort.

The added discovery that what had happened to him in Vietnam-the rush of the bloodl.u.s.t-wasn't a one-time deal, but something recurrent and beyond his capacity to control was especially devastating. When Irene had come upon him in his grandmother's pigpen early one Sunday morning, the fresh carca.s.s of a spring suckling between his hands, his face smeared brightly with blood, it had been the last straw.

"Just go!" he'd screamed at her-hateful, hurtful words he wished he could take back. He'd followed her back into Odette's house, letting the screen door slap shut behind him. She'd told him she was leaving; she'd crossed the kitchen for the corridor and the staircase beyond to pack her bags. "Go back to your daddy! Let him buy you a fresh new life! I don't need you here! I don't want you here! Do you hear me? I don't need you!"

He'd kept screaming because she'd kept walking, and she hadn't stopped until she'd gone out the front door. She'd cried the entire way, her shoulders twitching and shuddering with hiccuping sobs. When Odette had come home from her s.h.i.+ft at the Piggly Wiggly and found out what had happened, she'd slapped Rene across the face.

"Tu etes un couillon!" she'd cried. You're a fool! "Quel est le probleme avec tu, laissant cette fille marcher hors d'ici?"

What's the matter with you, letting that girl walk out of here? She'd shaken her head, her eyes filled with tears. "You push everyone away-anyone who tries to love you. Tu etes un couillon!"

Odette had never forgiven him for driving Irene away, not even after Arnaud Morin had shot and killed himself, leaving his fortune to Rene and rescuing them all from a life of abject poverty. She'd been diagnosed with stomach cancer a year after his inheritance, a particularly aggressive and ultimately lethal variety. Even though he'd kept a constant vigil at her bedside and made sure she received the best medical care money could afford, he knew that Odette had still died angry with him, her heart broken because of what he'd done.

There had been something so innocent and vulnerable about Irene; she'd lived a spoiled and sheltered life but hadn't been jaded because of it. Come to think of it, there were a lot of things about Tessa that reminded him of Irene.Maybe that's why I've been thinking so much about Irene lately, Rene thought, his head resting back against the pa.s.senger seat of the Audi, his eyes closed. And why I've been so hard on Tessa.

Tessa had surprised him-something few people did anymore, and never women. He'd worried that what had happened at the rest stop would cause her to have some kind of irreparable break down, but it hadn't. Her initial tears had waned, and she'd helped him with a relentless and stony sort of determination as they'd hidden the body together. She'd helped him dress his wounded hand and taken over driving duties without complaint. There was something tough beneath that pretty, pampered exterior, just as there had been in the end with Irene. Rene had to admit that it had shocked the h.e.l.l out of him and he had to admire Tessa for it.

He opened his eyes and glanced at her. The hot Texas sun streamed through the winds.h.i.+eld of the car, spilling directly upon them, and even with the air-conditioning at full blast, beads of perspiration had formed along the contours of her face, dampening her bangs. She'd tucked her hair back behind her ears and sat somewhat scooted forward, her hands draped against the top of the steering wheel as she kept her gaze pinned on the road ahead.

Mon Dieu, she's beautiful.

"It wasn't fancy," she said, seemingly out of nowhere, and he jumped, startled.

"What?"

She looked at him briefly. "My wedding. It wasn't fancy." Her gaze returned to the highway. "We don't do anything to celebrate marriage."

She adjusted her grip on the steering wheel, craning her neck slightly from side to side to resettle her spine. "The Elders arrange all of our marriages. They use the Tomes, like the one I found in Louisiana..." She pointed over her shoulder, toward the backseat, where the voluminous book had been stowed. "...to determine who marries whom. The Tomes keep each clan's records all the way back to the beginning. That way, the bloodlines stay clean and they can make sure there's no inbreeding among the clans."

"The beginning of what?" Rene asked, and she shrugged.

"Everything, I guess. As far as the Brethren are concerned, anyway; back to the thirteen hundreds, I think. Around the Middle Ages."

"Is that what you read in that book?" Rene asked.

Tessa shook her head. "I can't read it. At least not so far. It's written in French, but it's not like any French I recognize-an old dialect, I think, maybe medieval. Maybe you can take a look at it later, see if it makes sense to you."

"Yeah. Because I'm that f.u.c.king old," Rene remarked, and immediately felt bad. Here, they had been having the introductory strings of an actual, honest-to-Christ conversation-the first he and Tessa had enjoyed thus far in their travels-and he had to go and blow it with a smart-a.s.s comment.

To his surprise, Tessa laughed. "No, because your French is better than mine," she said, seeming completely unbothered by his remark. "Didn't you tell me you grew up speaking it?"

"My grandmother seldom spoke anything else when she was home," Rene admitted. His mother's side of the family had come from long-standing Acadian lines, and Odette LaCroix had been fiercely proud of this distinctive heritage.

"Anyway, you said something earlier about my fancy wedding, and it wasn't. I was Martin's sixth wife."

"His sixth wife?" Rene asked. Jesus, and I couldn't keep one happy long enough to make a go of things.

She nodded. "He was older than me. Much older. Brethren men can have multiple wives as long as they've pa.s.sed their bloodletting and are members in good standing of the Council." "The Council? You mean the ones who are after you and Brandon?"

Tessa glanced at him and smiled. "No. Those are the Elders. They're different. The Council is made up of all married adult males who have undergone the bloodletting. They propose rules and regulations, vote on things that affect all of the Brethren. The Elders are the head males from each of the clans, the strongest ones, our leaders. Whatever pa.s.ses at the Council has to be agreed upon by the Elders before it becomes mandate. And my grandfather has final say on everything, because he's in charge over the Elders."