Brandon felt the burning sting of a needle injection in his arm. Eyelids fluttering open, he lifted his head, wincing at the sharp, aching strain through his shoulders. He found himself chained to the metal folding chair again, with Julianne squatting in front of him, a spent syringe in her hand.
Good morning, she told him with a smile.
What…the fuck did…you just put in me? he groaned.
Her smile faltered. It’s medicine. Epoetin to stimulate your body to make more blood. You’re anemic now, from the blood loss. And mirtazapine. It’s an antidepressant.
He managed a weak laugh. Can’t imagine why the hell I’d be depressed.
She stood, smoothing down the front of her skirt, and tugging lightly at the hem of her cardigan sweater. She’d brought the wheeled cart with her again, and as she lay the empty needle aside on it, he saw the soup tureen and water pitcher once more.
I brought you some oatmeal, she said, trying to sound bright again, plastering a fresh new smile on her face. I thought we could try eating again. What do you say?
He watched, dazed, as she lifted the lid on the soup tureen and began to scoop out a serving of something thick, gloppy, and steaming. Although he had no way of keeping track of the passage of days, because the rooms in which he was held prisoner were constantly lit, he’d been forcibly fed through the nasogastric tube three more times. Each time, he’d wound up vomiting from the excessive volume they’d flood into his gut. They’d cleaned him up by hosing him down with an icy, high-powered spray, then left him to sputter and shiver, soaking wet and bound to the chair.
Julianne reached for his face and he no longer had the strength to recoil from her touch. When she tugged at the tape holding the tube in place in his nostril, he sucked in a sharp, hissing breath.
I’m going to undo the tape and take this out, she said. Tilting her head, she tried to draw his gaze. But if I do, you’re going to have to eat. Do you understand? If you don’t, the tube goes back in and we force-feed you again. Alright?
Brandon closed his eyes and nodded weakly.
Good boy, Julianne murmured, stroking his hair once before tugging again on the tape, working it loose. As she pulled the tubing up and out of his throat through his nose, he began to choke. Just as he felt like he might start to gag, the tip of the tube slid up from his throat, then out through his nose.
There. Julianne’s hand lighted against his hair again. That’s better, isn’t it? Here…let’s have a bite. She pushed the first spoonful past his lax lips and into his mouth. It only gets worse if you fight, Brandon, she said. You see that now, don’t you?
He nodded again, hanging his head.
* * *
He didn’t resist as Julianne spoon-fed him the cereal, and when she had finished, seemingly satisfied, she used the corner of a linen napkin to wipe his mouth, then stood.
That medicine, he said, drawing her gaze. The antidepressant. It’s to keep me from summoning the bloodlust, isn’t it? That…and using my telepathy.
The Wellbutrin he’d taken for years to suppress his bloodlust had also worked to stifle his natural telepathic abilities. Having Augustus around to block them had helped in that regard, but Brandon suspected this mirtazapine, or whatever the hell Julianne had called it, was a far stronger drug, one that didn’t need any outside reinforcements.
She didn’t answer. Wordlessly, she collected the few dishes she’d used to feed him and placed them back on the wheeled cart.
I’m right, aren’t I? he asked. You’re drugging me to keep me under control.
I’ll be back soon. Again, she ignored his words, smiling again as she turned to face him. I’ll get you all cleaned up when Julien’s finished.
Brandon didn’t know what that meant until he lifted his gaze and saw Julien striding across the threshold. He’d already removed his suit coat, and carried it across the crook of one elbow. And Brandon understood.
No, he thought, shaking his head, twisting his hands helplessly against the cuffs. He hated the fear that edged his words, but couldn’t help it. He could still see bruises riddling his midriff from where Julien had previously beaten him, was still hurting from injuries that had yet to fully heal. Wild-eyed with sudden panic, he looked up at her. God, please, Julianne, no. Please!
It might have been only his imagination, but he could have sworn a stricken look crossed her face, clouding her eyes for a fleeting moment. But she only turned away from him, taking the handle of the cart and pushing it toward the door.
Julianne, please, Brandon cried, but it was no use. She didn’t slow her pace; didn’t turn around. The door swung shut behind her, and he and Julien were alone.
Julien placed his jacket over the back of a chair. Big day today, kid, he remarked as he began to unbutton his shirt. We’ve got work to do. You ready?
Fuck you, Brandon seethed, mustering courage and defiance he didn’t feel.
Julien shook his head and chuckled. He stripped off his shirt and draped it aside, the interwoven design of his tattoos tangling down his arms and across his shoulders like a nest of snakes.
You’ve got spirit, he said. I’ve got to hand it to you. He dipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the gleaming brass knuckles, all polished and glinting wickedly in the overhead fluorescent glare. Damn shame I’ve got to break it.
What’s going on? he heard a new voice say, and he and Julien both looked in mutual surprise toward the doorway. Another man had entered the room; tall, with unshaven stubble on his cheeks and chin, and sandy brown hair swept back in haphazard spikes from his face. He wore dark jeans and a T-shirt with a hooded leather jacket over it, and carried a black duffel bag slung loosely over his shoulder. Even from a distance, Brandon could see his eyes were an unusual shade of crisp, bright blue, much like Julien’s, and recognized him instantly.
Aaron.
“Az!” Julien’s mouth spread wide in a sudden, delighted grin. “I’ll be goddamned! What are you doing here?”
In three broad strides, he closed the distance between them. Hooking his hand against the back of Aaron’s head, he pulled his younger brother to his shoulder in a brief but fierce embrace.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Aaron said with a smile, his mouth visible enough over Julien’s shoulder for Brandon to read his lips. “I thought you were in Miami.”
It was a short trip, Julien said, either deliberately keeping his mind open so that Brandon could be privy to their exchange, or—more likely—in his excitement, forgetting Brandon was even in the room at all. Considering Cervantes packed up shop and headed north up to Bayshore. Looks like the little wetback thinks he’s El Jefe now—the big boss. He’s making a play for that statue Father’s after.
Aaron’s eyes widened, but Julien shook his head. It’s nothing. I’ve got Nikolić and his crew down there handling it. I’d have done it myself, but… He awarded a pointed glance in Brandon’s direction. …I had more pressing business to attend to.
The Serbians? Aaron frowned. Man, those guys are brutal. They’re like bulls in a goddamn china shop.
Julien laughed. Hey, beggars can’t be choosers. You were out on a run. Speaking of which—how was Lake Tahoe?
Went well, Aaron replied. Would’ve gone faster if I’d been able to use the Bravo, but you know how it goes.
Julien continued beaming. You got it done? he asked, and when Aaron nodded, he clapped his hands. Hot damn!
Aaron squatted, dropping his duffel bag to the floor in front of him. He pulled something out, but at first, Brandon couldn’t tell what it was. All he could make out was one of those gallon-sized Ziploc bags—with something heavy and bloody inside. It looked like a small cut of raw pork or beef, swimming in its own sanguineous broth. Brandon didn’t need to hear to know when Aaron dropped it on the floor, it landed with a dense plop.
“Holy shit,” Julien said with a cackle. “You use a seven-inch blade for that?”
“Seven and a quarter,” Aaron replied, reaching beneath his shirt for the small of his back. He had a knife sheath there—a dark steel blade with a serrated edge and well-worn handle.
“When you saw through the costal cartilage, those rib bones fold right back, don’t they?” Julien said, taking the knife in hand. Miming as he spoke, he added, “If you wedge the knife point under it just right, that sternum just pops off like a bottle cap.”
Judging by the way his mouth moved, he made a POP sound to go along with this comment.
“Yeah,” Aaron murmured, as Julien spun the knife in his hand and returned it, hilt-first.
“Damn, that’s got a nice heft to it,” he marveled. “Might have to take it from you.”
“You’re welcome to try,” Aaron said, reaching beneath his jacket and tucking the knife back into its hidden sheath.
Julien beamed, delighted. “Is that a challenge?” he asked, playfully punching his brother in the socket of his shoulder.
Aaron winced, stumbling back a step at the blow. With a smirk, he recovered his footing and punched Julien back. “More like a dare.”
Julien’s grin widened. “You’re on.”
Brandon watched as the two men began tussling together, trading light jabs and headlocks, both of them laughing like a pair of rowdy kids. It was the way he and Jackson often wrestled together, and the normalcy of it—this unexpected, affectionate turn in Julien’s demeanor—struck him as bizarre, nearly surreal.
After a few affable moments, they finished roughhousing and leaned together, Julien with his arm around Aaron’s neck, winded and laughing.
“What’s with the shoulder?” he asked, his face softening with a fondness Brandon wouldn’t have believed him capable of. “I saw you favoring it. You going gimpy on me?”
“It’s nothing.” Aaron slapped his brother in the belly as he ducked out of his embrace. “I’ve been cooped up in a car, driving these past three days.”
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s have a look.” Julien grabbed a handful of Aaron’s jacket and shirt collar, tugging. “Those are bandages.”
“It’s not bandages, it’s a bandage, just the one,” Aaron grumbled, shrugging loose. “And it’s more like a Band-aid, one of those oversized ones, that’s—”
“What happened?” Julien asked.
“It’s nothing. I got shot.”
Julien’s eyes widened. “What?”
“It was a .22. No big deal. I’m fine.”
“You got hit by a .22?” Julien laughed. “That’s pretty pussy, Az. I don’t know if I’d be bragging about it or anything.”
“Fuck you.” Aaron flipped him off. “I wasn’t bragging. You asked.”
“What, were the Morins running a daycare out there? The kindergarteners out doing some target shooting?” Julien asked.
Aaron scowled as he leaned over, picking up the Ziploc bag. Tossing it to Julien, he growled, “Asshole.”
Julien caught the bag, then nearly dropped it again as he grimaced in disgust. “Jesus Christ! You didn’t put this on ice or anything?”
“Yeah. Like I want to drive across the country with Tristan Morin’s goddamn heart in a cooler, like a six-pack or something.”
Brandon felt a shudder of icy shock at this. What?
“It’s going to stink like all hell when Father opens the bag,” Julien complained, holding the bag out at arm’s length, his nose wrinkled. “Hell, it stinks already, even with the bag closed.”
Aaron shrugged. “His problem, not mine. He said to bring it back. That’s what I did.”
He…he killed Tristan? Brandon thought in shocked dismay. But why?
Tristan Morin had helped treat Brandon after he’d been so badly burned, but he’d been far more than just a caregiver. He’d brought Brandon a tablet computer so he could download movies or play games to pass the time while bedridden and convalescing. To mark the occasion of Brandon’s first solid meal, Tristan had driven from the Morin clan compound into the town of South Lake Tahoe and bought the biggest ribeye steak—Brandon’s favorite cut—he could find. He’d also personally grilled it for Brandon, serving it with an ice-cold bottle of Sierra Nevada that Brandon technically wasn’t supposed to have had, considering he’d still been on narcotic pain medications at the time.
“But we won’t tell anyone,” Tristan had told him with a wink and a grin, tapping his own bottle of beer in a toast with Brandon’s.
Tristan had been more than Brandon’s doctor. He was my friend, he thought, staring in numb disbelief at Aaron Davenant—and Tristan’s severed heart. All at once, the surge of hope and excitement he’d felt at Aaron’s arrival was gone. In its place, he felt a slow, simmering rage begin to build. That son of a bitch, he murdered my friend!
Aaron noticed Brandon’s attention—his sudden, furious glare—and met the younger man’s gaze evenly, his blue eyes impassive, his expression unreadable. “Who’s the kid?”
“Brandon Noble,” Julien replied. “Augustus Noble’s grandson. You remember Augustus, don’t you? He killed Victor. Damn near did the same by Allistair.”
“Victor was a prick,” Aaron said mildly, still holding Brandon’s gaze. “And Allistair’s never been much better.”
Julien chortled. “True,” he conceded. “But at any rate, he’s your ticket to ride, Az. All aboard the freedom train.” When Aaron glanced at him, visibly puzzled, he said, “The kid’s got the first-blood, same as you. Only he’s about a hundred and thirty years your junior, so his is a lot more potent.”
“What?” Aaron shook his head, as if trying to clear his ears of some perceived impediment to hearing. “Augustus Noble did that? Gave him the blood?”
“No. His half-witted son, Sebastian, did. He—”
Shut up! Brandon snapped, balling his fists and straining against the tight handcuffs. He had no idea what they were talking about—this ‘first blood’ that made him like Aaron—but it didn’t matter. The anger that had reached a low boil inside of him suddenly flared brightly at the mention of Sebastian’s name. Don’t talk about my father like that. Don’t you dare, you murdering sons of—!
His voice cut sharply short as a sudden surge of agonizing neuroelectric energy ripped through him. Brandon convulsed in the chair, nearly toppling sideways as his muscles abruptly heaved, his nerve endings all seeming to simultaneously short-circuit.
Cute, isn’t he? Julien remarked, releasing Brandon from the excruciating telepathic hold, leaving him to slump in his seat, gasping for breath, his shoulders jerking involuntarily. He hasn’t quite figured out how to keep his mouth shut yet, but I figure we’ve got nothing but time.
How do you know he has the first blood? Aaron asked.
Julianne, of course, Julien replied.
As he said this, as if on cue, Julianne opened the door and stepped across the threshold. At the sight of her cousin, she stumbled to a wide-eyed, stricken halt, her breath drawing short in a startled gasp. “Aaron!”
“Hey, Jules,” he said, ducking his head slightly so she could throw her arms around his neck in a fierce hug.
“What a wonderful surprise!” she exclaimed when she was through, stepping back to look at him, as if marveling at his presence. “I thought you were in Lake Tahoe.” With a glance at Julien, she added, “Mr. Kobayashi has arrived. Uncle Lamar has asked—”
“Kobayashi?” Aaron frowned at the mention of the name.
“I didn’t know we were having company. Why didn’t Father say anything?” Julien glanced at his brother. “Bet you’re glad to get to sit this one out now, huh, Az? Kobayashi’s a sick fuck.”
“Yeah,” Aaron murmured, and when he glanced at Brandon again, his expression nearly mournful, Brandon felt a sinking, twisting knot of dread in his gut again.
Aaron took the Ziploc bag from his brother, then turned, shoving it into Julianne’s hands. “Take that to my father. Let him know I’m back. I can cover Kobayashi.”
“But, Aaron…” Julianne said, looking down at the bag and its gruesome contents, her face twisting with disgust.
“Az, no,” Julien said. “We’ve tested the kid’s serum levels. All analyses show his somatotropic enzymes are off the charts.”
“They also show mine are almost at baseline—back to normal,” Aaron countered. “But I still heal three times faster than any control.” He reached down, grabbing his duffel bag. “I got this.”
Az, listen to me, Julien said, the pleading tone in his voice drawing Aaron’s gaze. You don’t have to do this. Not anymore.
My blood is still good, Aaron insisted, his brows narrowing.
And I like it right where it is, Julien said, reaching up and cupping his hand briefly, fondly against Aaron’s cheek. His mental voice cracked, as strained with raw emotion as any spoken words.
Aaron didn’t answer; he looked visibly moved by his brother’s plea, but at the same time, conflicted. When Julien gave him a little nudge toward Julianne and the exit, he fell in step, but didn’t look happy about it.
“Come on,” Julien said. “Let’s go show Father your souvenir. He’ll be tickled shitless. Then get showered, changed, whatever. We’ll go grab some beers, hit the titty bars, something.”
“Yeah,” Aaron murmured, as Julien steered him about and they headed for the door together. “Sounds good.” Sparing one last glance over his shoulder in Brandon’s direction, he said, Sorry, kid.
To his credit, he sounded nearly sincere.
Go fuck yourself, Davenant, Brandon seethed in reply. He felt foolish for all of the years he’d spent worrying about Aaron, pitying him, and regretting that he’d never gone back on the night of Lamar’s party to rescue him. Because you deserved it, you son of a bitch. You’re as sick as the rest of them.
Aaron looked away again, his face devoid of any emotion, as featureless and smooth as marble. The door closed behind them, and Brandon was alone.
You’re all fucking sick! he shouted after them.