CHAPTER EIGHT

 

Earlier that morning, long before Lina or her mother had stirred, Brandon felt a heavy hand first clap against his shoulder, then offer him a shake, drawing his mind from the shadows of sleep. With a mute groan, he opened his eyes and blinked dazedly up at Jackson.

Are you awake? Jackson signed, bringing his hands in loose fists to his cheeks, then snapping his index fingers up in tandem, mimicking eyelids opening with significantly more enthusiasm than Brandon’s had only just demonstrated.

I am now, Brandon signed back, letting his scowling expression impart the fact he was grumbling as he held up his own hands with only his thumb and little fingers extended, then dropped them down.

Jackson gave him the thumbs-up, then flapped in beckon. Come on, he signed. Get up. Get dressed. It’s time to go.

Brandon glanced at his bedside clock, then groaned inwardly again. He’d crept back into Latisha’s lanai through the back door, having cut across the yard from the Cadana’s bungalow next door shortly after midnight but had remained awake for hours past then, too wide-eyed and excited to succumb to sleep.

No wonder I’m so fucking tired, he thought, forcing himself to sit up, then pushing his hair back from his face.

After Brandon’s tussle in the yard with Téo, Valien had invited him into his house. In the living room, he’d offered Brandon a seat on the couch while he’d crossed the room to a large cedar chest. Propping it open with his shoulder, he’d dug around inside, sifting past colorful crocheted blankets, slipping something out from inside. He carried it, small and swaddled, in the cup of his palm toward the coffee table with a sort of subdued, if not somber, reverence. As Brandon watched, Valien sat beside him, turning back the folds of old, graying linen. Nestled inside was a small, weathered stone statue—a squat, hunched over creature with protruding, bulbous eyes, a bald head and downturned mouth carved open to reveal triangular teeth inside.

This is one of the wayob, Valien had told him. Powerful spirits from ancient times who came to our ancestors in jaguar form, then mated with human women. We are the descendants of their offspring, the Nahual; given the gifts of the jaguar’s speed and strength, its very spirit.

The Abomination, Brandon had realized, wide-eyed and stunned, because that was what the figurine looked like to him; not a jaguar, but an almost exact, three-dimensional representation of the creature depicted in the medieval drawings from the Brethren Tomes as their own primitive ancestor. The story Valien told him sounded too similar to the one Augustus had shared about the Brethren’s medieval origins to be nothing more than coincidence.

Brandon and Valien had spent hours talking together the night before, with Valien describing to Brandon the social structure of the Nahual clans, or corillos, as he called them, the same term Jackson had used the night before. “We are made up of several families living in alliance together,” Valien had explained. “Once there were more than a dozen factions represented among us here. My father was our leader until he was murdered. Then control of the corillo came to me.”

This was apparently a common occurrence among the Nahual, Brandon discovered. Unlike Brethren—some of whom, like Augustus, lived for centuries—Nahual seldom survived past the average human life expectancy, primarily because they were killed by their own kind. Or at least, their men were. As brutal as the Brethren ways of life had seemed to Brandon, the Nahual lived by even tougher, more vicious codes, where dominance wasn’t just determined, but continuously struggled for, fought over, died to preserve or obtain.

“My family allied with Siervo Perales Madeira’s corillo…” Valien pointed out an older man with graying hair standing across the room with Téo and another young man. “Those are his sons, Menico and Téo. There used to be more of us. Many, many more.”

What happened? Brandon asked.

Tejano Cervantes happened, Valien said, sounding unhappy. He leads another corillo —Los Pandieros, they call themselves. They’re enormous by pack standards—more than 200 strong. And when my father told Tejano we would not willingly secede to his control, he had him killed. The other families in our pack fell in with Tejano and Los Pandieros willingly, out of fear that their members would be next. That body you found earlier was Pepe Minoza Cervantes—Tejano’s brother, the one who killed my father.

The sun was only a faint orange glow along the eastern horizon when Jackson shoved the garage door up on its tracks, letting in a sudden huff of damp morning air. Amazingly, it was already warm out, thick and humid. When Brandon pulled on his helmet, straddling the back of the Suzuki as Jackson swung his leg around in front of him, he watched the tinted face plate abruptly fog up with moisture from his breath.

Glancing over his shoulder, his own helmet already in place, Jackson held his fist up and gave it a shake, a gesture that might have looked remarkably like he’d mimed jerking off, but in sign language simply meant, Hold on. Then, grasping the handles and depressing the clutch, he raised his hips from the seat, then stepped down again, swift and strong. The bike roared to life beneath them, a heavy vibration shuddering through Brandon’s legs and ass clear through to his teeth. He smelled the thick stink of exhaust fumes as they billowed out, trapped in the garage confines, then he watched Jackson shift gears again, and the bike lurched forward.

For a moment, Brandon tensed, hooking his fingertips beneath the edge of the seat beneath him, because the bike seemed so heavy, cumbersome and large, that there was no way it could stay upright, not balanced on two wheels. His breath caught, then Jackson shifted his weight, settling himself and stabilizing the motorcycle. The wind rushed into them and they were off, leaning in tandem as Jackson peeled out of Latisha’s driveway.

By the time they reached the motorcycle shop, the streetlights had started winking out one at a time around them, up and down the street. Jackson killed the engine, but while he swung his leg around from the seat, Brandon sat still a moment, his ass numb from the engine vibrations. He’d been expecting to sense Valien and the other Nahual upon their arrival, and felt no alarm at the tingling sensation as he did. Of the three bay doors on the stucco-covered garage, two were rolled open, letting out a spill of light.

Inside, Brandon could see many of the corillo members he’d met the night before. They stood together in loose clusters around several motorcycles in various stages of repair. Even from a distance, Brandon recognized Valien kneeling beside one in jeans and a white T-shirt, hard at work adjusting something on the bike’s suspension.

Jackson rapped his knuckles lightly against Brandon’s helmet, drawing his attention. Come on, he signed with a smile. He’d already pulled his helmet off and hooked it over the bike’s handlebar. Without waiting, or further invitation, he turned and strolled toward the nearest bay door.

Ducking his head, Brandon pulled his own helmet off. As he hopped off the bike, he saw Taya Parker come out of the garage, hurrying toward Jackson. Her mouth spread in a delighted grin, she threw her arms wide, then flung them around his neck. They kissed as Jackson hoisted her off her feet and spun her in a quick circle.

“You remember Brandon?” he saw Jackson say as he approached.

“Sure do,” Taya replied, still beaming. “How’s it going?”

Brandon smiled and shrugged, the quickest way to convey Alright, I guess, to someone who didn’t understand sign language.

“You two about ready to hit it?” she asked, looking up at Jackson, who stood with his arm around her.

“You bet,” Jackson replied, angling his head so Brandon could continue reading his lips. “Is Pilar here yet?”

Brandon blinked. Pilar?

Taya slapped Jackson on the flat, washboard panel of his belly. “Yup. Been here since seven. Just like me. You’re late.”

Jackson pretended to frown. “I am not.”

They tussled playfully together, winding up with Jackson ducking his head and catching Taya over his shoulder, lifting her up and leaving her to dangle, laughing and squirming, like a sack of grain.

“Put me down!” she cried as Jackson spanked her affably on the ass.

Even though Brandon had tuned out the sensation of Valien and his friends from his immediate awareness, when Pilar stepped out of the garage, he felt a shiver steal down his spine. Unerringly, his eyes and attention were drawn to her, magnet-like and irresistible. She wore a T-shirt and weather-beaten cowboy boots, her hands tucked casually in the hip pockets of her shorts.

“You guys remember each other?” Jackson asked.

Brandon nodded without averting his gaze from Pilar, even though the young woman looked anything but pleased to see him.

“Sure,” she said with a one-shouldered shrug, her brows narrowed as she glowered.

“Great.” Jackson clapped his hands together. “The gang’s all here. Let’s get going.”

Going? Brandon shook his head once, then signed, I thought you had to work.

Work on getting you laid, yeah, Jackson signed back with a grin.

Even though neither Pilar nor Taya could understand the sign language, Brandon still felt heat blaze suddenly, brightly in his face.

What? he signed to Jackson, his hand motions erratic and jerking, the deaf equivalent of stammering.

“Enough with the hand jive,” Taya complained with a smirk, snatching Jackson’s hands before he could gesture in reply. “Let’s get going. The sun’s almost up.”

Jackson nodded in agreement, then, holding her hand lightly in his own, turned and led her toward his motorcycle. While Brandon watched them, bewildered, Pilar took the words proverbially out of his mouth.

“Wait a minute. Where are you going?”

Jackson turned. “To the beach,” he replied. “Like we talked about.”

“Yeah, but…” Pilar blinked at Taya. “We talked about us going. Not…” she glowered at Brandon again, “…us.”

For his part, Brandon signed sharply to Jackson: I thought I was riding with you…?

No offense, but Taya’s my girlfriend, Jackson signed back, grinning again. You can see where I’m going with this, can’t you? When Brandon stared, stricken, at him, he laughed. You can thank me later.

Thank you, hell… Brandon began to sign, but Jackson turned again, presenting his back to Brandon as he continued walking. Shit, Brandon thought, helpless and aggravated that he hadn’t seen this set up coming, that he’d walked right into it headlong and oblivious.

Feeling sheepish, because he could feel Pilar boring deep, vicious holes into him with her eyes, he hunched his shoulders and forced himself to turn around. Hey, he said. Look, I’m really sorry about…

Shut up, Pilar snapped, cutting him short. That slight cleft between her brows had deepened now, and hot, angry color had bloomed in her cheeks. Locking gazes with him, she said, Let’s get something straight right now—I was tricked into this. Since apparently you were, too, I’m not going to kick your ass right here in this parking lot.

Brandon arched his brow, caught off guard. Excuse me?

Come on. Still visibly fuming, Pilar turned, stomping back toward the garage. My bike’s this way.

Her bike, as it turned out, was the one Valien had been working on. He stood as they approached, wiping grease from his hands onto a rather tattered hand towel. “You’re good to go, hermosita,” he told Pilar. With a smile directed at Brandon, he nodded once. “Hey, acho. Long time no see.”

Yeah. Brandon was surprised but pleased when Valien stuck out his hand, then eased Brandon through the same series of affable hand grasps and gestures he’d seen him use with Jackson.

Watch out for my sister, man, Valien said as Pilar swung her leg over the leather seat of her bike, settling herself comfortably. She can be a real handful.

Kiss my ass, Valien, she growled, turning the key in the motorcycle’s ignition and kick-revving the engine to life.

Riding on the back of Jackson’s bike was one thing; riding with Pilar, he realized, would be another entirely. For one thing, her bike was smaller than Jackson’s, and the shorter seat length meant he’d been almost entirely pressed into her. He sat stiffly, rigid on the bench behind her, trying to find suitable handholds beneath him as she put on her helmet.

You’re going to have to hold onto her, Valien said, handing him a helmet.

But with Jackson, I’ve been… Brandon began lamely.

Pilar reached behind her, seizing him by the wrists. Jackson drives like my abuela—my grandma, she said, yanking his arms forward, forcing them around her waist. Grab on or fall off. Your choice.

He couldn’t hear her rear tire squalling against the smooth concrete floor, but he could feel it skittering for purchase beneath him before at last finding traction, the bike racing forward. Taking her advice, he locked his arms around her waist, holding on fiercely as she raced out of the parking lot and onto the street. When she leaned into a corner, the bike canted so sharply, had he reached out with his hand, he could have grazed the pavement with his fingertips.

Over her shoulder, he watched her speedometer fly—forty-five miles an hour, fifty-five, sixty-five. As they blew through an intersection—and past Jackson and Taya—Pilar was clocking eighty miles per hour and counting.

Holy shit! he cried as she darted in and out of traffic. Right-of-way apparently had no meaning to Pilar. Ditto for traffic signs or double yellow lines. She passed on the left, the right, speeding into the paths of oncoming cars, then out again, through red lights and crosswalks, the wind buffeting them headlong.

Jesus fucking Christ! he yelled when she whipped past a delivery truck so closely, he felt the vibration of its side-view mirror as it winged within a hair of his helmet. When at last she stopped, seeming to have realized finally that was what a red light was for, he slid abruptly forward and against her back.

What are you trying to do—kill us both? he screamed at her with his mind.

She glanced over her shoulder at him as the light turned green and she dropped the motorcycle into gear, speeding forward. Not both, no.

****

Not much could have distracted Brandon from the sheer terror of that motorcycle ride, but the sight of the ocean upon their arrival did the trick. Massive, alien and wondrous to him, he stared at in dumbstruck awe at the pristine slate of blue-green water broken by foam-capped waves, marked by the strong, metallic scent of salt.

He’d seen pictures of the ocean in books and magazine, watched it in movies where it had served as scenery or backdrop, but nothing had prepared him for the immense vastness of it, the sheer and impressive magnitude of its breadth. Looking toward the distant horizon was like gazing into eternity; he could only imagine how far out his eye could travel along that sparkling cerulean plane, distinguishable from the sky by only the slightest differentiation in hues.

Now that they’d arrived, he could understand why Jackson had wanted to get there early. The sun was now on the rise, well above the horizon, and already, the stretch of white, velveteen beach was fairly crowded with tourists. Men, women and children ducked and danced along the lip of the tide, while further out, where the waves crested higher, he could see people surfing, or zipping along on jet skis.

Come on, Pilar said, leading the way down from the sand-dusted boardwalk to the beach.

He hesitated, uncertain. Shouldn’t we wait for Jackson and Taya?

She turned to look at him, her expression impatient and sorely taxed. I told you. Jackson rides like an old lady. He’ll be another ten minutes at least.

He watched her walk away, torn with momentary indecision. The beach was crowded enough for him to feel justified in his concern that Jackson and Taya might not be able to find them. But at the same time, Pilar was his ride—if only begrudgingly so—and by that token alone, losing track of her seemed to be the least prudent choice.

Hunching his shoulders in miserable resignation, Brandon trudged after her. When she found what she considered to be a prime patch of ocean-front real estate, she came to a halt. She’d carried a small bag with her, and opened it wordlessly, fishing out a colorful beach towel which she then snapped between her hands to unfurl. She faced him as she did this, the breeze off the water rustling her hair, sending it trailing over her left shoulder in sudden, fluttering waves.

Look, I’m sorry, she said at length, glancing up at him. About being so shitty with you back at the shop. It’s just… Huffing out her cheeks, she heaved a tremendous sigh. I don’t like being tricked. This isn’t your fault, and I know it. So I’m sorry I snapped at you.

He wasn’t sure which surprised him more, her candor or the fact she was actually being civil to him. It’s okay, he said. Then, since he had her attention—not to mention that she was in somewhat of an improved mood—he added, I’m sorry, too, for what happened last night. With your boyfriend, Téo, I mean. I didn’t…

She shot him a glare. “I told you before. Téo’s not my boyfriend.”

Sorry. Brandon would have groaned aloud had he been able, realizing he’d inadvertently undone all of the tentative progress only just made. Then, after a hesitant moment, he cocked his head to draw her attention. Does he know that?

For the first time since they’d left the garage, she managed a laugh. Me saca de quicio. When he shook his head, not understanding, she said, It means he drives me crazy. He’s been in love with me for ages. And now he’s pissed off that you’re around, because he knows he’s out of contention.

Bewildered, Brandon said, For what?

She frowned, bringing the blade of her hand up to her brow to shield her eyes. You really don’t know, do you? Because he only shook his head, at a loss, she sighed, exasperated. You’re my pareja, she said. My match. My mate.

With that, Pilar turned and began to walk toward the water. Brandon watched her go in stricken surprise, remembering what Augustus had told him; how the feelings he’d had toward Pilar had been the same as when Augustus had first met Brandon’s grandmother Eleanor.

Wait a minute. Brandon fell in step, first behind then alongside her. When she didn’t slow down at all, he caught her elbow, forcing her to look at him. What’s happening to me whenever you’re around—you can feel it too?

He didn’t know if this more relieved or mortified him, but at least in that moment, he didn’t feel like he was going completely insane. Not all by myself, anyway.

Your whole body tingling? she asked. Thoughts filling your mind—touching each other, tasting each other, feeling you inside of me, filling me…

She said this so candidly—with such unabashed bluntness, he stumbled to a surprise halt. Uh, yeah, he said, and now he could feel his cheeks burning brightly. That.

With a stern glare, she flapped her arm, breaking away from his grasp. “Ni borracho,” she said. Forget it. “I’m in love with someone else. I wouldn’t do that to Elías, wouldn’t hurt him like that…not for the world.”

Her eyes had softened, growing somewhat forlorn as she spoke, and Brandon realized she was as conflicted and confused as he was by what was happening.

Hey, I am, too, he said, holding up his hands in concession. In love with someone else, I mean.

I know, Pilar said, and his brows raised in new surprise. Jackie’s sister, Lina. I saw you together the other night, out on their lanai.

He felt fresh new humiliated color stoke in his cheeks. What?

I snuck out to go see Elías and had to cut through the back yard.

Great, Brandon thought to himself. Lina’s mom heard us and Pilar had a front row seat. Maybe next time, we should just charge admission.

Look, he said to Pilar. I don’t want to hurt Lina, either. I love her—God, with all my heart—but it’s like there’s something inside of me, something I can’t fight or resist whenever I’m around you. I’m not happy about it, trust me. Hell, I’m going crazy from it! How do I make it stop?

You don’t, she replied simply, then she turned and waded out into the surf.

What? Plodding clumsily through the water, he followed her. Wait a minute. What do you mean, I don’t?

She turned, the water above her knees now, waves slapping against her calves as they rolled inland. I mean you don’t make it stop. Not unless we sleep together.

He staggered to a halt; a wave surged up, hitting him in the chest, spraying his face.

My mother says that pretty soon, it’s going to be all we think about, either of us, Pilar continued. You think you’re going crazy now, give it another week or more. It’s like a fever—once it gets inside of you, it doesn’t stop burning. It eats you up inside and the longer you stay here, close to me, the worse it’s going to get.

What are you saying? he asked, floundering forward, catching her by the arm.

You have to leave, Brandon, Pilar told him. You have to get as far away from me as you can—as soon as you can.

****

So what do you think of Pilar? Jackson asked Brandon several hours later.

Brandon glanced over his shoulder toward Pilar and Taya, watching as they giggled together. After spending most of the morning on the beach, the four had followed the boardwalk to a small hamburger stand for lunch. While Taya and Pilar stood at a nearby condiment station, piling tomatoes, lettuce and slices of avocado onto their burgers, Jackson and Brandon had staked out a picnic table beneath the shade of a wide-brimmed umbrella.

On more than one occasion that afternoon, despite his best attempts to the contrary—his damndest efforts to put as much space between himself and Pilar as possible—Brandon had still been drawn to her. In her bikini, drenched as she’d bobbed in the surf, she’d been damn near irresistible to him, holding his gaze, capturing his attention, leaving him spellbound, helpless and miserable all day.

I think she’s a great girl, he signed to Jackson, adding quickly, And that she’s in love with someone already. She told me all about him.

Jackson frowned as if he’d just bitten into a lemon wedge. That guy’s a prick, Brandon, he signed. He’s not right for her.

Brandon laughed. But I am?

I think so, yeah, Jackson said.

That’s crazy. I only met her yesterday. Brandon felt both touched by and admittedly annoyed with Jackson’s dogged persistence. Because, goddamn it, he couldn’t be right for Pilar. He didn’t know her. Outside of the incessant need to peel her clothes off and fuck her, he didn’t know a damn thing about the woman, and had no intention of doing so—now, later or otherwise.

You guys have more in common than you know, Jackson said. Did you know her dad died last year?

Valien had mentioned something about this, about their father being murdered, in fact, but it hadn’t quite clicked with Brandon until that moment.

She saw the whole thing, Jackson added. Some guys came into the bike shop and shot him. She hid under a desk and watched. There was nothing she could do.

Jesus, Brandon signed. In his own mind, his father’s death had been murder, too. Even though Sebastian had pulled the handgun trigger himself and taken his life, he’d been coerced into doing so by a sadistic and masterful manipulator: Allistair Davenant.

She won’t talk to anyone about it, Jackson continued. And I know Valien’s been worried about her. Maybe you could say something…?

Like what? Brandon’s hand gestures grew sharp and swift with aggravation. It’s not some goddamn fraternity, you know, like your dad dies and you win some automatic lifetime membership.

He regretted the angry words as soon as he’d signed them, and blinked at his friend in aghast. I’m sorry, he said, tracing a circle above his heart with his fist. He didn’t know why he still felt so defensive when the matter came to Sebastian. Maybe it was because Lina kept bringing it up, however indirectly, by criticizing his burgeoning relationship with his grandfather.

How can you think that Augustus Noble is going to somehow take your father’s place? she’d asked him. Why the hell would you want that?

I’m sorry, he said again, but Jackson shook his head.

No, you’re right, he signed. I don’t know what it’s like…how you must feel. I shouldn’t have…

He’d started to sit against the picnic bench, but immediately jumped up now, knocking into the table and nearly toppling the whole thing. His face had twisted, his mouth open as he’d yelped, and all at once, Brandon caught a sudden whiff of a thick, coppery, unmistakable smell—blood.

“Are you alright?” Taya came running over to them, her eyes flown wide with concern.

Jackson cradled his right hand against his left. “Fine,” he said with a scowling wince. “I just cut myself. There’s a loose nail on that bench.”

“Let me see.” Taya tugged on his wrist, and when he insisted he was okay, she shot him a look that apparently spoke volumes. Relenting with a sigh, Jackson held out his hand, and Brandon saw a ragged slash across his palm. The nail had gouged deeply enough to be more than a glancing blow; already the thin seam of blood he’d first smelled had spread, and now dribbled down his wrist in ever-widening rivulets.

Oh, shit.

Even though Jackson had lived for almost ten years on the Noble family farm in Kentucky, he had no idea about the existence of the Brethren, or the truth about their species. Somehow Brandon or his father had always managed to keep Jackson secreted from it, safe from the horrific truth.

But all at once, it occurred to Brandon that it had been weeks since he’d last fed, long enough for that steadily strengthening aroma of blood to the bloodlust in him. It might have been better if he’d had blood more recently, and if his senses—his most primal and basic of Brethren instincts—weren’t already on hyperactive overdrive since meeting Pilar. It might have been better if he’d still been on the Wellbutrin, if he hadn’t heeded Augustus’s advice and flushed the entire month-long supply of the pills Tristan had procured for him down the commode. It might have played out differently under a thousand different circumstances, but as piss rot luck would have it, at the sight and smell of Jackson’s blood, the bloodlust within Brandon surged, unbidden, unwelcome—and utterly unexpected.

He was acutely aware of the quality of light around him growing brighter, the sunlight more dazzling as his pupils reflexively widened, and he felt a rush of warmth in his gums, a sudden flood of saliva in his mouth.

Oh, shit, he thought again, shying back. I have to get out of here—right fucking now!

To compound his horror, Jackson looked up at him. Although Brandon wasn’t sure the change in his eyes was apparent yet, or the swelling as his canine teeth began to emerge, he still backpedaled in panic.

Spinning around, Brandon nearly stumbled headlong over another picnic table. The corner caught him low in the gut, doubling him over, leaving him gasping for breath. Then, staggering, he floundered for the nearest possible escape—a small public bathroom building located next door. He slammed the door to the men’s room shut behind him, but to his dismay, found the deadbolt wouldn’t latch. Frantic, he pawed at it, turning it uselessly back and forth.

It was a single-commode facility, and there were no stalls, no other doors, and only a tiny window cut into the cinderblocks, thick glass panes reinforced with a heavy steel screen set too high on the wall for him to even hope to reach. After several desperate, futile attempts to leap up and try, he caught sight of himself in the dingy mirror above the sink and froze. His eyes were almost fully blackened, and his mouth hung unconsciously ajar, accommodating his dropping canine teeth.

This can’t be happening, he thought in dismay. Jesus Christ, this can’t be happening to me.

He reached for his pocket, for his cell phone so he could text Lina, let her know he was in trouble, even though there was nothing on earth she could do to stop this or salvage it. Then he froze, eyes wide, realizing he could sense Jackson telepathically as he walked straight toward the other side of the door, no more than five feet away.

Shit! he thought, but before he could rush forward again and try to brace the door, hold it shut, it swung open as Jackson poked his head into the bathroom.

Shit, shit, shit! Brandon scrambled backwards in horror, clapping his hands over his mouth. Oh, God, this cannot fucking be happening!

Trying to hide his eyes from Jackson’s notice, as idiotic as it sounded, Brandon wheeled about in a clumsy semi-circle, just as he saw his friend say his name, his brows lifted with worry: “Brandon?”

Please go away, he thought, brows furrowed. He didn’t know if he was willing this to Jackson or to the bloodlust, but either way, he clamped his eyes shut and thought it again and again, mantra-like. Please go away, please God, please don’t see me like this…

He felt Jackson’s hand fall gently against his shoulder, and he tried to shrug him away. Had he been able to, he would have uttered a miserable cry aloud. Again, Jackson touched him, and again, Brandon shrank away, shaking his head furiously, shoving one hand behind him, a feeble but fervent barrier, a wordless warning: Please God, just leave me alone!

Jackson caught his shoulder again, more firmly this time, and before Brandon could forcibly jerk himself loose, he turned him around to face him.

No, Brandon thought again as he felt Jackson took him gently by the hand, trying to pull his fingers away from his mouth. He shook his head, pleading without opening his eyes. Oh, please don’t, Jackson. Please.

His hand slipped, his mouth—and fangs—revealed, and with a horrified gasp, he floundered backwards, knocking into the sink basin and tripping over his own feet. He fell down on his ass, then scuttled backwards, pressing himself into a corner. Tangling his hands in his hair, he drew his knees toward his chest and tried to hide, again just as he always had as a child when he’d cowered from Augustus’s wrath or Caine’s relentless bullying. He tried to make himself small, feeling stricken and childlike and vulnerably exposed, and wishing somehow he could slip through the mortar and disappear.

Aware of his fright and dismay, Jackson made no further move to approach. Instead he knelt on the floor and waited until at last, Brandon relented and risked a peek in his direction.

“It’s alright,” Jackson told him with a gentle smile—which was ridiculous, of course, because there was no way in hell Jackson—or any other sane person, for that matter—could find anything remotely alright about Brandon’s appearance. He looked terrifying; monstrous even to himself, and he knew it, just like he knew there would be no way to explain it to his friend.

Jackson scooted toward him, extending his hand to touch Brandon’s cheek.

Please don’t. Brandon ducked his head again, trembling with shame and fright—afraid that Jackson would hate him for what he really was, for having kept it a secret from him for all of that time.

I’m sorry, he signed, tracing circles around his heart with his fist. Please don’t look at me, Jackie. I don’t want you to see me this way…please…

He felt Jackson’s fingers—warm, strong, kind—catch his own. Because Brandon still wouldn’t look up, Jackson turned his hand over, finger-spelled against his palm, a game they had often played together in his childhood back on the farm. It’s alright, he spelled to Brandon, and when Brandon shook his head—no, it’s not, you don’t understand—he signed it again. It’s OK.

He then tucked his fingertips beneath Brandon’s chin, lifting his head, forcing him to meet his gaze. “It’s alright,” he said with a soft smile—looking directly at Brandon, at his teeth, his eyes—at what he’d become, what the bloodlust had done to him.

Bewildered, disbelieving, Brandon blinked at him, and Jackson’s smile widened. “I think we need to talk,” he said.