CHAPTER SEVEN

 

“Let you get settled into your rooms a bit after check-in,” Mason was saying, as their uniformed chauffeur, along with a scurrying bevy of bellhops and valets swarmed the vehicle, collecting the meager assortment of bags from the trunk of the Bentley. With a glance at his watch, he said, “It’s shortly before five now. Why don’t we plan to rendezvous in the main lobby by the main waterfall at six o’clock sharp?”

“The main waterfall?” Karen asked, blinking owlishly. “You mean there’s more than one?”

“Oh yes, at least a dozen or so,” Mason replied cheerfully. “And a river too.” When her eyes widened all the more, he added, “It winds all through the resort complex, inside and out. You can take electric catamaran tours of it. I’ll arrange one, if you’d like.”

“I thought you said we weren’t supposed to be at this party of yours until ten,” Tristan said with a scowl.

Any good humor he might have managed—or Karen might have imagined—along the ride from the airport had abruptly faded. It had happened, she noticed, right about the time she’d nearly fallen into his lap while she’d stood to look out the sunroof. Tristan had caught her, helping to steady her without incident, but he’d been acting surly ever since, the proverbial cat that had been dunked in a toilet bowl.

Was it really so horrible for you to have to touch me? Funny. You didn’t seem to mind it too badly last night.

“The soiree, no,” Mason said. “But I’ve made arrangements that should keep us pretty well occupied in the meantime.” He chuckled, then draped one arm around Tristan’s shoulders, the other around Karen’s, steering them both toward the entrance. Here, another cluster of uniformed staff waited to open doors in greeting. “Tell me, how does a warm stone massage, seaweed thermal body wrap, mint pedicure, organic chamomile compress, and facial sound?”

“I just buried my mother yesterday.” Tristan hooked his bag from the bellhop’s cart as it wheeled past. Shouldering his way past his uncle and Karen and tromping into the hotel, he added, “I doubt a bunch of seaweed’s going to make any difference.”

Karen had never heard Tristan speak so harshly to Mason before, and to judge by the way Mason sucked in a sharp, wounded breath, he hadn’t either. He stopped in midstep, bringing Karen to a stumbling halt along with him while Tristan went on ahead.

“He had no right to say that,” she said, because Mason looked like Tristan had just caught him with a sucker punch in the gut, leaving him breathless and dumbfounded and more than a little bruised. “In fact…”

Fuming, she shrugged away from Mason, meaning to follow Tristan into the hotel and confront him. What the hell’s your problem? she wanted to demand, not just about how he’d spoken to his uncle, but about everything—the night before, that morning, the limousine ride just now.

“Let it go.” Mason caught her by the hand.

“He had no right to say that,” she said again, brows narrowed.

Mason smiled at her with more sorrow than humor. “Yes, he did.”

****

Stepping foot into her suite was enough to make Karen forget her ire with Tristan, at least for a little while. Larger than her lakefront house back in Tahoe, the suite stood in elegant contrast to the glittering, somewhat garish skyline of the city beyond its windows. Freshly cut white roses and calla lilies had been arranged in vases throughout the suite, lending the room a sweet, delicate fragrance. The furnishings—cherry wood with alternating cornflower blue and cream-colored upholstery—were delicate and decorative, nearly Baroque in design. Lush drapes fell in sweeping ivory folds from the towering windows while the king-sized bed had been piled high with down-filled blankets and pillows, a skillfully arranged and wondrously inviting mountain of them.

“I hope it’s to your liking, ma’am,” the valet who had escorted her said as he walked ahead of her across the expansive breadth of the great room, snapping open drapes to let the waning afternoon sun spill across the floor.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, hating to feel like that stereotypical small-town girl from Kansas, all round eyes and agape as she looked around, but helpless to stop herself.

“This is our Queen Anne suite,” the valet continued. “Many of the furnishings are authentic pieces from the early eighteenth century, when Anne of the House of Stuart served simultaneously as Queen of Britain, Ireland, and France.”

She and Mason had parted company upon check-in. She’d lost track of Tristan at that point, although she’d still been pissed enough with him to not bother keeping much of an eye out for him anymore.

“About the party tonight…” Karen had said to Mason, with a gnawing anxiety in her voice. “You told me to pack lightly, so I did. I don’t…I mean, I didn’t bring anything to wear.”

Not that she’d have had anything in her meager wardrobe, anyway. A red-carpet event, that’s what Mason had called it. She’d seen enough awards programs and premiers on TV to understand what that meant.

“We have a shopping galleria here at the resort,” Mason had told her with a reassuring smile.

But even with the generous salary Michel paid her, she doubted she’d be able to afford anything red-carpet worthy. Either this had been obvious in her crestfallen expression, or Mason had read her mind; either way, he’d chuckled and given her cheek a quick kiss.

“Don’t worry,” he’d said. “It’s on me.”

“But I…I…” she’d stammered, and he’d dropped a wink.

“Consider me your fairy godfather.”

“Dr. Morin had a bottle of wine delivered already,” the valet told her, and she followed his gaze to a small table where, beside an overflowing spray of white flowers, a bottle had been left uncorked to breathe. A pair of glasses flanked either side, and in front of it, a platter of colorful fresh fruits and sliced cheeses awaited.

“The wine is a 1996 Chateau Lafite-Rothschild Pauillac,” the valet said as he went to the table and poured a dollop of the dark burgundy wine into the basin of one of the glasses. Swirling it gracefully, he presented it to her. “This Bordeaux vintage has been called ‘the King’s wine,’ as it was once favored by Louis the Fifteenth of France. You’ll find its texture silken, with lingering flavors of black currant and mint, with a strong tannin finish.”

“Oh,” she said, because she didn’t know jack-shit about wine. Accepting the glass, she swished it around as she’d seen the valet do, then, because he continued watching her with a patient sort of expectation, she took a sip. “It’s good.”

“It costs an average of two thousand dollars a bottle,” the valet told her helpfully, at which point, she nearly spit all over his crisply pressed slacks and well-polished shoes.

“It’s very good,” she amended weakly, once able to choke down a mouthful and speak. “Would you like a glass?”

The young man chuckled. “No, thank you, ma’am.” He nodded once, politely, and when she fumbled to find some money to give him, a tip he wouldn’t consider insulting, he’d shaken his head. “There’s no need, ma’am. Dr. Morin has seen to all of the arrangements. Shall I return shortly before six to escort you to the lobby?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding stupidly, still holding her wineglass. She had no idea what tannins were, but the kid had been right. The wine had a lingering aftertaste to it. She suspected it was called money. “Thank you. That…that would be nice.”

When he’d left, she took a few moments to wander around the suite, staring in continued awe at the beauty of the room and all the elegant furnishings. Sinking onto the bed was like settling into a cloud; the mattress and bedding enveloped her, cradling her body, and she closed her eyes, releasing a long, heavy sigh. In that moment, it was all nearly worth it—the horrible, heartbreaking morning, the airplane flight from Reno, the bizarre and continuously tumultuous interactions with Tristan.

I could get used to this, she thought with a faint smile. But then, remembering her three-step plan, she forced herself to sit up, then return to the living room, where she fished her cell phone out of her travel bag.

To her immense relief, Michel’s phone rang over to voice mail. Leaving a message would be so much easier, she told herself. If I talk to him on the phone or try to tell him in person, he’ll talk me out of it somehow. Not by using his telepathy or tricking me, but just by the way he is. I know it.

Because that’s exactly how she’d wound up working for him in the first place. After Tristan’s two-year clinical rotation at the Sierra Nevada Medical Center had ended, he’d left and never returned. From Karen’s perspective, at least at the time, it had been a good thing, because she’d been hard-pressed to get anything done whenever he’d been around. For almost two years after that, she’d gone about her nursing duties there, until one evening, halfway through a twelve-hour shift, a tall man in a camel-colored coat with striking green eyes had asked to speak with her.

There’d been something familiar, uncannily so, in his appearance, but it hadn’t been until he’d introduced himself—Michel Morin—that she’d felt a shock of full, tremulous recognition.

Morin.

She hadn’t realized at the time that Michel was Tristan’s grandfather, because he hadn’t introduced himself as such. There was no way she’d have believed him anyway, no way she could have fathomed how a man who barely looked old enough to be Tristan’s father could be even older than this—much, much more so. Instead, Michel had told her he was a relative of Tristan’s, and when he’d broached the subject of her possibly coming to work with Tristan at an exclusive medical clinic funded by the Pharmaceaux International research company, she’d been excited.

Had Tristan specifically recommended her? Had he remembered her after all that time? While to that point, they’d done nothing except work together in a completely professional, clinical setting, there had always been that undeniable, irresistible attraction to him—one she’d often felt certain he’d shared. The idea of seeing him again, working with him, being near him, had sent her heart racing with eager anticipation. The salary hadn’t mattered; Michel could have offered her a pittance and she’d have accepted gladly.

Anything for Tristan, she thought in her Las Vegas suite with a frown. That’s how it’s always been with me—anything for him. Well, not anymore.

“Hey, Michel,” she said, the note of good cheer in her voice not as forced as it might have otherwise been had she not just knocked back a glassful of the flavorful, ridiculously expensive wine Mason had bought her. “This is Karen. Listen, I really appreciate you letting me take some time off this weekend, but I have to tell you…I just don’t think this is working out. It’s been a year now, and I’m getting pretty homesick, and I’ve been thinking about just heading back east, back to Kansas for a while. I hate to leave you in a spot, but with things going so well lately with Eleanor’s treatments, and with Lisette…” Her voice faltered as Tristan’s words, angry and hurt, echoed in her mind.

I just buried my mother yesterday. I doubt a bunch of seaweed’s going to make any difference.

“I just think it’s best if I go,” she finished in a rush, then thumbed off the phone to disconnect the call before she could say anything stupid, like try to take back her resignation. Idiotically, she found herself blinking against the dim heat of tears, and with a miserable little cry, she threw the phone across the room.

I couldn’t live like this, she realized, looking around again, no longer seeing the room as something opulent, like out of a fairy tale, but rather imposing, like out of her league. This isn’t me. None of this is. This is Tristan’s life, the Morins’ life. Not mine.

Less than an hour later, as Karen left her room in the company of the young valet, who had returned as promised, she paused in the corridor outside her door, her attention caught by the unexpected sound of piano music, something low and sorrowful and achingly familiar.

Tristan.

He and Mason both had suites on the same floor as hers; Mason’s was directly across the hall, while Tristan’s was further down. Mason was well acquainted with his nephew’s remarkable musical talents and had obviously offered him accommodations with a piano to use as he pleased.

While the valet walked on ahead, oblivious to the sound, Karen turned, following the soft strains until they abruptly ended and she found herself outside suite number 1721—Tristan’s. She knew the piece he had been performing: Beethoven’s Für Elise. He’d often played it for his mother on the piano Michel had delivered to the clinic for this specific purpose, and had recorded it so that when he wasn’t around, she could still hear its melancholy, haunting refrains. Lisette had been vegetative, nonresponsive at this point, with no discernable brain activity, but Tristan had been devoted nonetheless, as if through the song, he’d found some last semblance of physical and emotional connection to his dying mother.

In that moment, listening to the piano, Karen felt her heart ache for Tristan. She’d seen for herself, for more than a year, how fiercely dedicated he’d been to his mother’s care, and he’d told her many times about how close he and Lisette had been. He’d felt protective of her, and in the end, responsible for her, and even though he’d likely come to terms with the grim reality of her impending demise years earlier, it couldn’t have made the loss any less poignant or painful for him.

Oh, Tristan. She draped her hand lightly against his door—not a knock, but a caress, as if touching his face, offering him comfort. Closing her eyes, she leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the wood. I know you’re hurting. Why won’t you let me help?

After a moment, she had the strangest sensation—that Tristan had come to stand on the other side of the door, that he’d placed his hand against it just as she’d done, so that they were palm to palm, save for the panel of wood between them. She could swear that he, too, tucked his forehead against the door. He knew she was there, and he was torn inside. She could feel it somehow, feel him, and when he closed his eyes, she could see it in her mind; when he uttered a low, lonely sigh, she could hear it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to her, and she heard him, plain as day, as if he’d offered this directly in her ear.

“Miss Pierce?” The valet’s voice came from behind her, soft and hesitant, and she turned in surprise, eyes flying wide. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Momentarily puzzled, if not somewhat disoriented, Karen looked back at Tristan’s door. The sensation of him standing on the other side—if it had really been there at all—was now gone.

“Dr. Morin is waiting,” the valet told her, sounding uncertain now.

She let her hand linger against the door for another moment, then drew away. Forcing a smile, she turned to the boy. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Lead the way.”

****

Tristan listened through the door as Karen walked away, her footsteps light on the carpet runner in the corridor outside. More than this, her fragrance faded with her, and he closed his eyes again, drawing in the last lingering hints of her sweetness from the air.

It had taken every ounce of strength he’d possessed not to open the door. Upon arriving at his suite, he’d promptly dug out the bottle of Wellbutrin from his bag and choked down another handful. His telepathy had been dampened along with any residual bloodlust again. He hadn’t sensed Karen come to his door with his mind. Instead, it had been the scent of her body, so distinctive and appealing, that had drawn his attention away from his music.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, wanting to throw open the door and race after her, catch her. I didn’t want to hurt you, Karen. Last night was amazing, but I fucked it all up. It’s all my fault, and I’m sorry.

Instead he retreated into the bathroom. Flicking on the bright, glaring overhead lights, he dug furiously through his small shaving kit until he found a razor. Working swiftly, he dismantled it, letting the double-edged stainless steel blade fall against the granite countertop. He took it in hand, then squatted on the floor, dropping to his knees in front of the toilet. Holding out his arms, he leveled them, bare and exposed, over the basin, and with his left hand, pressed the edge of the razor hard enough into the flesh just below his right wrist to leave a dent.

For a long moment, he sat there, poised and unmoving, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. It wouldn’t have taken much. The radial artery wasn’t deep; even with the naked eye, he could see it pulsing beneath the delta of his thumb, marking the frantic, harried cadence of his heartbeat.

It could kill you.

Naima’s voice and words came to mind, haunting him, making him hesitate. Two nights earlier, she’d said this to him. He’d come to her house shortly before midnight, wanting her to feed from him. Usually, she obliged him because to that point, she’d been in on his secret, his sick little fetish.

He liked to bleed.

Not just have a little blood drained from him, the scant amount needed to sustain the Brethren components of his or Naima’s nature—Tristan liked to lose massive amounts of his blood, enough so that if he’d been human, he would die from hypervolemic shock. In fact, it was that state of reflexive physiological shock, an instinctive rush of endorphins through his veins, that made the experience so appealing to him. It was the ultimate high, his body’s last desperate fight-or-flight reaction.

“No, Tristan.” Naima had sat on her couch, her long legs tucked beneath her, her expression unreadable, unflappable. She’d watched him first unbutton, then shrug his way out of his shirt without saying a word, but when he’d stepped toward her, out of the shadows and into the dim circumference of light cast by a nearby lamp, she’d shaken her head. “Not tonight. Not ever again.”

“What?” Bewildered, he’d blinked at her. She’d never denied him before. In fact, she’d admitted to him that a part of her—something primal and predatory in her nature—enjoyed the chance to physically overpower him, the way she imagined a cat must find a favorite toy stuffed with catnip particularly appealing. She’d drain him nearly dry, until that surge of epinephrine would course through him like a sexual climax, and he’d fall unconscious in its wake.

“It’s not good for me,” she said. “Michel thinks it may be causing some of the violent fugues I’ve been suffering. He said something about ingesting too much Brethren blood in one sitting causing a chemical imbalance in our brains. Feral psychosis, he called it.” With a pointed glance, she added, “Not to mention, it could also kill you.”

“You told Michel?” he’d asked in dismay. Although surely not the first Brethren to discover the elusive high that came with nearly bleeding to death, Tristan was the only one he knew who practiced the habit, and it was one he had no doubt his grandfather would disapprove of. “Great. Just great. That’s the last fucking thing I need.”

Humiliated, furious, he’d leaned down, snatching his shirt in hand.

Her brows had lifted, her face softening with gentle sympathy. “Tristan, Michel cares about you.”

He’d managed a clumsy laugh. “Yeah.”

“Why don’t you believe that?”

She’d looked at him and he’d met her gaze, primarily because she’d forced him to through her telekinesis, enveloping his head in a firm but gentle bubble of energy and holding him fast, refusing to allow him to escape or avert his gaze.

Because he rules my life, he’d wanted to say. He’d wanted to shout it at her, hoarse and angry, his fists balled, his brows furrowed. What I eat, what I drink, who I fuck, my job, my house, my car. He trapped my mom here, and now he’s trapped me too. Or he thinks he has, at any rate. He doesn’t care about me. He cares about controlling me, controlling my whole goddamn life. Because I’m not like you. I’m not like Mason or Rene or Brandon or anyone else. I’m a full-blooded Brethren, but a bastard son, and to Michel Morin, that’s no better than being his bitch. His goddamn slave, Naima, and you of all people should know what that feels like!

He hadn’t deliberately opened his mind to his sister and didn’t know if she’d overheard him or not, but in the end, her face had hardened again, growing as smooth and cool as stone, and she’d let him leave without another word.

Tristan’s brows furrowed as, in the bathroom of his hotel suite, he tried to summon some resolve and slash his wrist open. The bleeding would clear his mind. But even though he dug the edge of the blade deeper into his skin, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

It could kill you, he thought of Naima saying, and he let his fingers relax against the razor. With a soft plunk, it dropped into the toilet, sinking fast, winking with light reflecting off ripples above it.

She was right and he knew it. One of the reasons he didn’t die when Naima bled him almost dry was because the coagulating enzymatic properties of her saliva prevented it. The Brethren could both naturally anesthetize their prey with their saliva, so that biting into them wouldn’t hurt, but could also stave the flow of blood by accelerating the body’s natural clotting mechanisms once their fangs had withdrawn. Within seconds after a Brethren released his or her bite from a victim, bleeding would all but cease.

With a razor blade, on the other hand, Tristan wouldn’t have that kind of benefit. He could suck on his own wrist, of course, letting his own spit affect him, but there was always the chance that he’d pass out from blood loss before being able to do so sufficiently, if at all.

And in that case, I’d bleed out all over the floor. He thought of Karen finding him like that, or Mason. With a heavy sigh, he raked his fingers through his hair. I can’t do that to them.

He heard a knock at his door and glanced over his shoulder. Although he opened his mind reflexively, the medication he’d taken had effectively muffled him, and as before, he could sense nothing discernible. Feeling strangely vulnerable because of this, he rose to his feet and went to the door, using the peephole to peer out into the corridor beyond.

“Mason.” He opened the door, feeling sheepish and ashamed. “Look, about downstairs, what I said…how I acted earlier…I was out of line.”

“Yes, you were,” his uncle agreed with a nod. “But it’s all right.” With a gentle smile, he reached for Tristan. “I loved Lisette too.”

He hooked his hand against the back of Tristan’s neck and Tristan let him pull him against his shoulder in a kind embrace.

“I know,” Tristan whispered, closing his eyes, feeling ridiculously close to tears. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s forgotten.” Mason turned his head slightly, kissing Tristan fondly on the head through his hair. “Now put your shoes on and come with me.”

As he drew back, Tristan shook his head. “Look, Mason. I appreciate the offer, that shit with the spa. Really. But…”

“But it’s not your idea of a good time?” Mason asked.

“Not at all,” Tristan admitted, and Mason laughed.

“I made the spa reservations for Karen,” he said, clapping Tristan on the shoulder. “You and me—we’ve got a tee time to keep. How does that sound?”

Tristan wasn’t much of a golfer either, but all at once, he didn’t care. “Better than a seaweed wrap,” he said, making his uncle laugh again.