Out of the Dark (The Brethren Series)

CHAPTER TWELVE



Tristan Morin is Lisette’s son? Aaron thought in shock, paralyzed in the back of the SUV. Lisette’s and…and Michel’s?

To his further dismay, he realized that his father would have had to know this.

A brother for a brother, a son for a son. Those were the words with which Lamar had dispatched Aaron to California. Tear open his throat, leave the mark of our vengeance in blood on the floor around him. Take your blade and carve out his heart—I want to hold it in my hand, crush it with whatever strength I have yet to call my own.

Jesus Christ, he thought. I almost killed Lisette’s son!

The truck came to a stop; they’d apparently reached the airport, because he heard both front doors open, felt the chassis shift as Augustus and Naima climbed out of the cab together. He heard muffled footsteps as they walked around to the back of the truck, and held his breath, bolstering his psychic wards with all of his might when the back hatch popped open, allowing in a spill of shockingly cold air and pale sunlight he could discern even through the heavy blankets.

“Thank you again for the ride, Naima,” he heard Augustus say. Aaron listened as he hefted a small traveling bag out of the compartment; it slid against the floor near his head.

“My pleasure,” she replied without much sincerity in her voice.

For a long moment, there was silence, but the hatch remained open. Aaron might have wondered what the hell they were doing had he not been able to sense Augustus scanning the interior of the truck telepathically. He’d done this periodically ever since getting into the vehicle, as if he hoped to catch something or someone unaware and with their guard down. To that point, Aaron hadn’t let his guard down; he’d boosted his customary mental defenses, in fact, to make sure the son of a bitch couldn’t detect him. And yet somehow, Augustus remained either suspicious or stubborn enough—or both—to keep trying.

“Is something wrong?” Naima asked with an exasperated sort of sigh that indicated she’d noticed his delay, as well, and wasn’t amused by it.

“Have you ever seen a picture of a black hole?” Augustus asked, seemingly apropos of nothing. “There aren’t any, I know, not any real photographs, but there are plenty of artist depictions out there—a vortex of light and stardust surrounding a center point of complete blackness.”

“I’m familiar with what a black hole is, yes,” Naima replied . “You’re going to miss your plane.”

“I own my plane,” Augustus told her. “It’s not going anywhere without me.”

“Then what the hell’s your point, Augustus?” she asked with another heaving, put-upon sigh.

“My point is there has been the odd and random occasion when I’ve encountered the telepathic equivalent of this. Haven’t you?” he asked. “A moment in which you sense absolutely nothing, an absence of psionic energy so absolute and utter, it seems almost…unnatural.”

Shit, Aaron thought with a frown.

“It’s like a spot of complete darkness where there’s otherwise a haze of residual telepathic awareness,” Augustus continued. “It’s as if someone is trying so hard to prevent my notice…they in fact draw it.”

Shit, Aaron thought again, trying to decide if he should whip back the blankets and attack Augustus, using the last semblance of surprise he had. He was strong enough now to take on the older man; he felt confident about that. But he also knew going up against Augustus would take up whatever reserve of strength and telepathic ability he’d only just renewed—a prospect he didn’t relish.

“You’ve never sensed this?” Augustus asked Naima idly.

“Maybe,” she said, her voice sounding decidedly nervous and edgy. “I don’t know. Look, I need to get back to the compound…”

“Of course.” Augustus chuckled lightly. Aaron heard a slight rustling, and then the hatch door finally closed. At this, he let loose the breath he’d been unconsciously holding, huffing out a long sigh of abject relief.

“You’ll want to be careful, child,” he heard Augustus say, his voice muffled now.

“And why is that?” The tone of her voice suggested Naima bristled at this condescending reference.

“Because I doubt I’m the only one whose decisions of late would meet with your family’s disapproval,” Augustus said. “Or make them question just where your loyalties lie.”

He knows. Goddammit, he knows I’m in the truck, Aaron thought, feeling like a f*cking idiot for thinking he could disguise himself from someone with Augustus’ telepathic prowess and experience.

He heard Naima’s footsteps as she walked away, returning to the driver’s side. “Have a nice flight, Augustus,” she said drily. As she climbed into the cab and slammed the door, she added under her breath: “Bastard.”

***

Naima let Aaron ride in the front after they left the airport, instead of remaining in the back. However, she didn’t immediately get back on the road to return to South Lake Tahoe. Instead, she followed a winding two-lane highway outside of Carson City. This was high desert country, with steep hills and boulder-strewn gulleys, sparse brush and spindly trees; a grey landscape beneath the fading blue expanse of the dusk-draped sky that had been a popular filming location for old-time western movies, Michel had once told her.

“Where are we going?” Aaron asked, but she wouldn’t answer. But when she finally pulled to a stop, dropping the Escalade into park, he found his answer.

“Trailways?” he asked, leaned forward, peering curiously out the windshield.

“Yes.” Naima turned the key and killed the engine. “It’s a bus station. Get out.”

Aaron blinked at her. “What?”

“Get out,” Naima said again. “They can help you at the ticket counter to plot a route back to Kentucky.”

His brows narrowed slightly. “I can’t buy a ticket. I don’t have any money. My wallet was in my rental car.”

“No problem.” Naima popped open the center console, where she’d stowed a small clutch-styled wallet before leaving the compound. Opening the billfold, she pulled out a pair of Benjamin Franklins. Thrusting these out to him, she said, “Keep the change.”

The crimp between his brows deepened. “I’m not leaving.”

“Well, I’m not driving you any further,” she said. “So we can either walk in together and I buy you a bus ticket home, or you can hitchhike north to Reno, or wherever. It doesn’t matter to me. But you’re not going back to Tahoe. You’re not going anywhere near my family ever again.”

“I thought you wanted to help me remember my past.”

“I’m feeling a little less charitable, considering my grandfather had his throat cut.”

“I didn’t do that,” he said. “You know it wasn’t me.”

“Whoever it was sure as hell wants my family to think it was,” she snapped. “Any idea who that might be, Mister Broughman?” Folding her arms across her chest and glaring at him balefully, she added, “Maybe one of your associates from Diadem Global?”

He looked at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. If her familiarity with his alias surprised him, he didn’t let it show.

“I doubt it,” he said at length. “Since most of my associates with Diadem count on me to make sure my father keeps funneling money into their pockets. That tends to keep me on their good sides. What about your grandfather? Wasn’t it last year that a radical animal-rights zealot stuck a pipe bomb under Michel’s car in the parking lot of his pharmaceutical company’s headquarters? Daniel Del Rosa, was his name—he’s still in the top five of the FBI’s Most Wanted, right? Michel had been getting death threats from him—from several members of his activist group, People Against Cruelty to Animals—over the last ten years, if memory serves. His partners at Pharmaceaux have, too, along with most members of the directorial board.”

How the hell did he know all that? Naima thought, startled. She remembered Michel mentioning something off-handedly about the car-bombing attempt; it had made the national news, and he’d have been hard-pressed to keep it a secret. But I didn’t know it had been going on for ten years! Michel never talked about it—not to me, or Mason, not to anyone.

Her surprise must have been apparent on her face, because Aaron shook his head and chuckled. “Augustus isn’t the only one who can do a background check.”

She balled her hands into angry fists. “Do you really expect me to believe you don’t have any enemies of your own?”

“I didn’t say that,” Aaron replied. “More people want me dead than your whole lifetime of acquaintances, I’d bet. But none of them know my current whereabouts. Or my assignment.”

“Your assignment,” she repeated, and he nodded. “Which was what? To go after my family?”

“Not all of you,” he replied mildly. “Just the boy, Tristan.”

The bluntness in his voice startled her. He sounded so…goddamn matter-of-fact about it, as if he’d been describing the weather to her, or some kind of report he’d needed to complete at the office.

“He’s my brother,” she seethed, brows furrowed. “He’s your nephew—Lisette’s son. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

She felt a momentary satisfaction when he flinched, his eyes growing troubled; she’d aimed below the belt with that one, a verbal kick in the balls, and apparently it had hit home—and hurt.

“I didn’t know he was Lisette’s son,” Aaron said quietly.

“Would you have still tried to kill him if you had?”

“Of course not.” He looked wounded. “Look, I didn’t even remember Lisette outside of a name I’ve heard in passing up until about an hour ago. I couldn’t have picked her out of a line up, but when I heard you and Augustus talking, it triggered something in my mind.” Pivoting in his seat, he turned to face her better. “I remember my sister’s face. I’d forgotten it—and my mother’s too—all these years, but I remember now, a little bit anyway. I want to remember more—I want to remember it all.” His brows lifted, his blue eyes round and pleading. “I need your help for that.”

God, how she wanted to believe he was sincere in his implore. But she kept thinking of Eleanor’s plea before she’d taken leave of Lake Tahoe: He’s not the boy you knew. He disappeared off the clan registries for a reason—Augustus said Lamar Davenant needs him for something. And whatever that may be, he would never have trusted Aaron to it if he didn’t feel he could implicitly.

“What about your assignment?” she asked, stiffening again, pulling her hand away. “What about killing Tristan?”

He shook his head. “There would be no point in it now. My father wanted him to die because of the pain it would cause Michel.”

“What about Mason? I thought it was a brother for a brother, a son for a son.”

“I think the loss of a father causes just as much pain as that of a brother, don’t you?” Aaron asked quietly. “I’d hope Michel’s death would satisfy.”

Naima’s brows furrowed as she turned the key in the ignition, gunning the Escalade’s V-8 to life. “Yes,” she snarled. “We certainly want Lamar to be satisfied.”

Dropping the truck into reverse, she pivoted enough to glance behind her as she stomped on the gas and, with squealing tires, pealed out of the bus station parking place. “Let’s get something clear,” she said, sparing Aaron a glance as she changed gears and headed out of the parking lot. “I’ll help you remember if I can, but only because you helped me long ago. I owe you for that if nothing else. But that doesn’t mean I trust you, and you’re not coming back to the compound. I told you—there’s no way I’m letting you anywhere near my family.”

***

To get back to the highway that would deliver them south to Lake Tahoe, Naima had to retrace her route back to Carson City. As the Escalade bounced and jostled along the rutted road, she found herself wishing she hadn’t sought out the bus station after all. She didn’t like Mason’s truck; she was used to driving her far smaller, far more agile Lexus RX 350, a utility vehicle hybrid more the size of a large sedan than the oversized Cadillac. Navigating the truck through the tightening twists and curves of the roadway proved challenging, and she kept stomping on the brake to slow the damn thing down; the brakes felt boggy to her and the wheels kept slipping for uncertain purchase.

I don’t remember getting out here being this big a pain in the ass, she thought with a frown. The paved blacktop had given way to gravel several miles earlier, and ever since then, she’d had a sinking feeling. Shit. Did I miss a turn or something? Where the hell am I?

She forgot she was in the cab with a telepath—one who, like her, apparently had no natural inclination to hold his ability in any check.

“You went right off Bunker Hill Mine Road onto Brunswick Canyon Road,” he remarked. “I think you should have gone left.”

“Why the hell didn’t you say something before now?”

“I thought you knew where you were going.”

“Great,” she muttered. “And it’s getting dark, too. Just great.”

Leaning over, she tried to find the headlamp switch among all of the knobs and buttons on the dashboard. Because she couldn’t do it and keep an eye out the windshield at the same time, she straightened in her seat and stepped on the brakes, meaning to pull off and park on the narrow shoulder of the road—the side abutting a steeply sloping hill, and not the equally steep drop-off leading to a wide expanse of shallow stream on the other side.

She felt the usual hydraulic resistance when she pressed against the brake pedal, but all at once, unexpected and surprising, that resistance was gone. The pedal depressed easily all the way to the floorboard, so easily her foot slipped off it. When she stomped again, harder this time, there was no resistance at all; the Escalade continued moving forward, its speed increasing as the downhill angle of the road likewise increased.

“What’s wrong?” Aaron asked, no doubt observing the sudden alarm in her face—not to mention the fact she was now pounding her foot repeatedly into the brake pedal like she’d seen a nest of spiders camped out there.

“The brakes aren’t working!”

“Calm down.” Aaron leaned over, popping the gear shift into neutral. “Use the parking brake. Go slow or you’ll skid us out.”

She curled her fingers around the emergency brake handle, but when she started to pull it up, expecting to feel resistance as the brake shoes at the rear wheels took hold, again there was nothing. “Aaron!” Eyes flown wide, she glanced at him. “It’s not working.”

He nodded once, indicating the road ahead of them. “I’ve got it. You drive.”

As she clamped both hands on the steering wheel, feeling the Escalade accelerating even more beneath them as the downward slope of the road continued, he tried unsuccessfully to pull on the lever and engage the rear brakes as well.

He glanced up, met her gaze. “It’s not working.”

“I just told you that!” she exclaimed.

“Can you stop this thing with your telekinesis?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I can try.”

Like a person could be endowed with superhuman strength during surges of adrenaline, Naima’s telekinesis would be heightened during one of her feral fugues. During one such state, she’d uprooted a redwood and tried to crush Tristan with it.

However, her normal degree of strength in terms of telekinesis was significantly less. Michel and Augustus were the only two Brethren she could think of who could telekinetically seize hold of a vehicle as large as the Escalade—a sharply accelerating one at that—and bring it to a stop.

Again, Aaron apparently read her mind. “Start small,” he said, unfastening his seatbelt and leaning toward her. “Try to stop the wheels. I’ll take over steering.”

While he held the steering wheel, Naima reached out with her mind. She was able to “feel” the spinning tires through her telekinesis, and even grab hold of them—causing the entire truck to lurch suddenly, violently toward the drop-off by the creek, and Aaron to crank the wheel to get them back toward the center of the road. No matter how hard she tried, however, she couldn’t keep a telekinetic grasp on the wheels for more than a few seconds; her mind would “slip,” and again, the Escalade would momentarily skid, leaving Aaron scrambling to correct them.

“Damn it!” Naima snapped. “The tires are moving too fast! I can’t keep hold of them.”

“Let’s try something else then,” Aaron said—and how the hell he was staying so remarkably calm while fighting to keep them on the twisting, turning roadway and not careening the edge of the embankment into the creek, she didn’t know. “How does that shit work, anyway? Do you need to be able to see something to…what did you call it? Keep a hold of it?”

He glanced her way and when she shook her head, he continued. “You know how the front brakes on this thing are set up? No? Okay, listen. Your wheel turns by way of a metal disk called a rotor. There’s one on each side, for each wheel. You got that?”

“Yeah,” Naima said, stiffening in her seat and sucking in a sharp breath as they veered around a sharp corner. She felt the Escalade shift beneath her, its left side front and rear tires threatening to raise off the ground from the sheer force of their momentum.

“Okay,” Aaron continued, perfectly unfazed, as if this was an everyday occurrence for him. “The brake fits over the edge of the rotor like a clamp. The sides of the clamp are what’s called brake pads. When the clamp—the brake—closes, those pads close against the rotor. That’s what slows the wheels down.”

“Can’t we just put it in park?” she asked.

“Yeah, if we’d like to leave the chassis behind us, and this cab—with us in it—to go flying on at about eighty miles an hour for a good three hundred feet or more,” he replied wanly. Then, more sharply: “Listen to me. Even if you can’t stop a moving object, like the wheel or the rotor, you should be able to still telekinetically control the brake. If you close the brake pads together, we can slow the truck down and stop it safely.” He cut her a glance. “Can you do that?”

“I’ll try.”

“There are little pistons that move the brake pads in and out,” he told her. “They’re mounted onto a caliper, and use hydraulic fluid from the master cylinder to—”

“You’re not helping.”

“I’ll shut up, then.”

Naima closed her eyes and tried to picture what he’d described to her, the brake pads pressing against either side of the front wheel rotors. She opened her mind and tried to will them to close, despite the fact she’d never seen them before and didn’t know exactly what they looked like. She felt herself connect with something on the underside of the truck, and when the Escalade suddenly began to slow down, its tires slewing on the gravel road, she uttered a happy little cry. “I think I’ve got them!”

“Hot damn!” For the first time, Aaron’s voice reflected something other than cool detachment. He sounded pretty pleased. “Go slow now. Don’t squeeze them too hard or we’ll skid out of control. Just slow us down a little at a time…there you go.”

By the time she was able to stop the Escalade, Aaron steered it gently, grill-first, toward the rocky hillside. She closed her eyes, wincing at the crunch of metal against stone—Mason was going to kill her for messing up his ride—and let out a long, deep, shuddering sigh of relief. It was fully dark outside now, but there was dim illumination inside the cab from the dashboard lights.

“Nicely done,” Aaron said, draping his hand against hers and giving a squeeze. By that point, he was practically sitting on the center console to best reach the steering wheel. When she opened her eyes, she found him treacherously close to her.

“Thanks,” she said, returning the squeeze he’d given her fingers, and not immediately pulling away from his grasp. “You…you, too. Good job on the steering.”

“We make a pretty good team,” Aaron said, turning to her and smiling. In that moment, she remembered that her time as Lamar’s prisoner had not been all horrific or heartbreaking; that there had been moments of genuine happiness and pleasure there.

Because of you, Aaron, she thought.

“Yes, we do,” she murmured as he leaned closer, lifting his face toward hers. We always have…

The thought dissolved as his lips brushed against hers. Naima remembered their first kiss; she remembered their last, and every single one in between. His had always been the kiss by which every other man’s had been measured; no other had ever compared. The warmth of his mouth, his tongue, his breath—she’d dreamed of it, had longed for it—for him—for centuries. In that moment, she didn’t care if he remembered their time together or not—she did, and she had missed him for so long, and with such desperation.

She whimpered softly and he lifted his hand, grazing the side of her face, her ear, and cupping the back of her head. He pulled her close to him, and she went willingly, letting her lips part as the tip of his tongue pressed lightly against the seam of her mouth. His tongue delved more deeply, the kiss growing fiercer, and he leaned over the center console, shifting his weight as if he meant to slide over and straddle her in the driver’s seat. One hand fell against her breast, his palm warm through the thin Lycra of her tank top, while she reached between them and felt his growing arousal hot and straining through the front of his pants.

And then he sucked in a sharp breath through gritted teeth as she grabbed him firmly by the balls and squeezed.

“Get off me,” she seethed.

“Okay,” he said, nodding, easing slowly back toward the passenger seat. “Okay, okay, I’m going…Jesus…!”

She waited until his ass had met the leather upholstery before turning loose of his crotch. Aaron doubled over toward the dash, gasping for air. “What…the f*ck was that for?” he exclaimed somewhat hoarsely.

“Don’t ever touch me again,” she snapped, turning the key to kill the Escalade’s engine. “You don’t have that right anymore.”

Furiously, she planted her shoulder against her door and flung it open wide. Hopping down from the cab, she slammed it shut behind her and, in the dark, started tromping off down the road.

“Hey,” she heard him call, as he opened his door. “Hey! Goddamn it, would you wait a minute?”

She heard his footsteps in the gravel, but kept on walking, fists balled, baleful glare pointing straight ahead.

“I’m sorry,” Aaron called after her. “Alright? I’m sorry. I’m an a*shole. There—I said it. I’m an a*shole and you had every right to try and rupture my testicles. Are you happy? Will you get back in the truck now?”

Pausing, she turned to face him. “Why should I?”

“Because we’re out in the middle of nowhere,” he shot back. “It’s the desert. And it’s dark. It’s cold. It’s only going to get colder now that the sun’s gone down. And you don’t have a coat. I doubt your telekinesis can keep you from dying of hypothermia.”

She glowered at him. He glowered back, still somewhat doubled over, his hands between his thighs.

“Will you get back in the truck?” he said again. Then after a moment, and with a grimace, as if it pained him tremendously to do so, he added, “Please?”

“The brakes don’t work,” she said. “How are we going to get out of here?”

“I have an idea,” Aaron said. “But I can’t do it alone.” Again, as if it hurt him to admit it, he clenched his teeth and said, “I need your help.”