Tessa woke to find herself blinking at the barrel of a gun.
Rene had left it for her on the bedside table, the .45-caliber revolver he’d picked up from the dead would-be bandit at the roadside rest area. That morning, Rene had apparently intended it to be as much a paperweight as an item of personal protection, judging by the note he’d pinned beneath it.
Bon jour, the note opened, and it occurred to her as she sat somewhat propped up in bed, resting on her elbows, her hair sleepily tumbled in her face, that this was the first time she’d ever seen his handwriting. For a man whose appearance was often anything but, his penmanship was remarkably neat.
Something weird has come up, and Lina and I have gone to San Francisco to take care of it. Will be back late this afternoon and will explain more then. Don’t kill your brother in the meantime.—R.
She glanced at the bedside clock; it was only shortly before eight in the morning. She and Rene had been up late, well past midnight. What could have come up between now and then that was “weird” enough to send him all of the way to San Francisco?
A knock at the door drew her attention and she frowned, crawling out of bed. She hadn’t bothered to put on her gown the night before, or redress after making love to Rene in the armchair outside of slipping his T-shirt over her head. Her jeans lay in a pile on the floor and she stepped into them, drawing them up to her hips before crossing to answer the door. In that brief amount of time, whoever was there knocked again and again, louder and more insistent each time.
“Jesus,” she growled, unlocking the turn-bolt. “All right already.” She opened the door to find Brandon on the stoop. “What do you want?” she asked with a scowl, wishing she’d thought to grab the pistol off the nightstand.
Lina’s gone, he said, holding out a piece of paper that she didn’t need to see.
“I know. She and Rene went to San Francisco. He left me a note, too.”
He raised his brow. He tell you what was going on?
“Not really,” she replied. “But I sort of know.” When his expression grew quizzical, she said, “The police think Lina is involved in what happened at that nightclub.”
What? Brandon’s eyes flown wide, his mouth slightly agape. How do you know that?
She stepped aside, flapping her hand in unspoken invitation and he walked into the room. It was cold out; his breath had been frosting the air around his head, and chill bumps had risen all along her arms just from standing in the doorway.
“We saw it on TV,” Tessa said. “There was a little news bit about it on CNN. They were talking about what had happened with the birds, and how the police had found Caine’s body…and Jude’s.”
Jude Hannam? Brandon said, and she nodded. Her ex-boyfriend? He paused for a moment, then his expression grew stricken. Jesus, Tessa, the police don’t think Lina had something to do with what happened to Jude, do they?
He looked so distraught, so immediately guilt-ridden that she couldn’t stay angry with him. Brandon, it’s all right, she said.
It’s my fault, he said. They’ll want to arrest her now because of what happened.
“No, they won’t,” she said. “Lina didn’t kill Jude. They can’t arrest her for something she didn’t do.”
No, but she killed Caine, he replied. She shot him. They can sure as hell arrest her for that.
He was going to kill her. Tessa knelt in front of him, meeting his gaze. He would have killed you, too, Brandon. You know it—you know how he was. It was self-defense. Lina didn’t have a choice. Neither of you did.
How is she supposed to explain that? Brandon stood, his hands balled into fists. What is she supposed to say—that her boyfriend is a vampire who was being hunted down by his crazy vampire brother, who also happened to have killed her ex-boyfriend? They’ll think she’s nuts. They’ll lock her up and throw away the goddamn key.
He began to pace, restless and alarmed. This is all my fault.
“Don’t say that, Brandon,” she said, standing.
He wheeled to her, his brows furrowed. It’s true, Tessa. All of this is my fault! Lina and Rene have gone to San Francisco to try and make things right somehow. And it’s not their place to. It’s mine.
“What do you mean?” she asked, and when he shook his head, she caught him by the sleeve. “What are you going to do, Brandon?”
I don’t know, he replied, his expression still grim. But I got us all into this fucking mess, Tessa. Now I’ve got to get us out of it somehow.
They went to breakfast, riding together in Martin’s Jaguar.
Why do you think Rene and Lina took two cars? Brandon had asked in the motel parking lot.
I don’t know, Tessa had replied, curious about this herself. It didn’t make sense that Rene would have taken the rented Jeep all the way to San Francisco anyway; not when he had to pay for mileage on it, and they had two other cars he could have used for free. He’d picked up the Jeep locally and she couldn’t fathom any reason why he’d take it clear to San Francisco to return if he was finished with it.
At a nearby diner, she ordered for Brandon and he blinked in surprise when instead of her customary oatmeal for herself, she ordered three slices of cherry pie.
Why? he asked when the waitress was gone.
“Pie’s good for breakfast,” Tessa said, unfolding her napkin and placing it primly in her lap. “It’s not that much different than a danish or doughnut if you think about it. And cherry’s the best. Not too sweet. Sort of tart.” When he still looked at her like she’d just thrown her shirt wide open and sat there in front of God, the other patrons and the whole of South Lake Tahoe with her breasts hanging out, she laughed. “Really. You should try it some time.”
Why three pieces? he asked.
“Because,” Tessa replied. “I like pie.”
After ordering, the twins sat for a long time, Brandon nursing a cup of black coffee and Tessa, a glass of milk. He was still deeply troubled. She could tell from his posture, the distant, melancholy cast to his eyes as he gazed aimlessly out the window. She tried several times to talk to him, offering idle chitchat, but he didn’t fall for it.
The waitress delivered their food, and as Tessa scooped up her first heaping forkful of pie, she watched as Brandon carefully folded his fingers around the handle of his fork and speared a bite of scrambled eggs off his plate.
How are your hands? she asked, trying yet again to get his mind off Lina and the news story.
This time, Brandon seemed to take the bait, smiling for the first time since he’d come to her motel room door that morning. Almost back to normal. He set his fork down, chewing his eggs, and picked up a strip of bacon between his forefinger and thumb. There’s still some soreness. Not much, but a little, and everything feels pretty stiff when I try to move, but otherwise good.
She didn’t miss the way his gaze swept across her face, or how his smile faltered. Your face is almost back to normal, too, he observed as he took a bite of bacon.
She’d noticed it, too, that morning; the bruising in her face had faded enough so that a light layer of makeup had nearly disguised it completely from view. Around her neck, the contusions had been bad enough to still remain, faded gray handprints encircling her throat. She’d worn a turtleneck to breakfast, but Brandon had undoubtedly seen them that morning at the motel. As Rene had pointed out to her once, he was deaf, not blind. If she were to feed, they would be gone almost instantaneously, but all she had to do to dispel any urge was think back to her horrifying nightmare in which she’d somehow been Monica Davenant creeping into a little girl’s bedroom with the intent to gorge herself—or remind herself of just how close she’d come to doing the exact same thing while making love to Rene only the night before.
Suddenly it was her turn to stiffen, and she wished she’d just kept her mouth shut and eaten her pie. I don’t want to talk about that anymore, Brandon. She struggled to smile. Let’s talk about something fun. Something that has nothing to do with Martin or Caine or Grandmother Eleanor or the Brethren.
At the mention of Eleanor, his expression shifted, growing nearly ashamed. He watched her scrape the side of her fork tines against her plate, gathering the last traces of cherry pie filling. Tessa, he began at length, sounding hesitant and uncertain. About last night…I didn’t mean—
“I said let’s talk about something fun, Brandon,” she said, drawing a peculiar look from the waitress as she leaned over the table to refill Brandon’s mug. Tessa managed a polite smile as the woman walked away, then looked at her brother again. “Look, we’ve got the day to ourselves and I say we make the most of it.”
Brandon raised his brows, curious. What do you mean?
Tessa smiled again, unforced this time. “You’ll see.”
Several hours later, the twins stood along the shores of Emerald Bay, their feet in the damp, graveled sand of a wide beach. Behind them, a stone-walled mansion called Vikingsholm stood sentry over the smooth, tranquil plane of water that was broken only by a small, knobby outcropping called Fannette Island. Part of a state park, Vikingsholm had been the last stop in a sightseeing tour that had taken them around the southernmost edge of Lake Tahoe. The day had proven flawless; a cloudless sky overhead, the air cool but pleasant all around them. They had bought disposable cameras and packed a picnic lunch, playing tourists for the first time in their lives and enjoying themselves the entire time.
Tessa watched Brandon walk ahead of her, almost to the lip of the water. He stood with a light breeze rustling his dark hair, his head tilted back slightly, and as she moved to stand beside him, she saw his eyes were closed, the corners of his mouth lifted in a soft smile.
God, it’s beautiful here, he thought to her. When a car drove by on the road behind them along a steep mountainside slope, he turned, his brow raised slightly, as if he’d somehow—impossibly—heard the growl of its engine carried by the wind and water.
Rene owns property nearby, she telegraphed, pointing north. Somewhere that way. He took me there yesterday. Twenty-five acres, I think he said, and some kind of little house he thinks was once used to watch for forest fires. It had all belonged to his father.
She didn’t add that this was where Martin was being held. Brandon knew this on his own, but more important, she didn’t want to spoil what had turned out to be a perfect day by thinking about or mentioning Martin Davenant.
Vikingsholm was closed for seasonal tours until later in the spring, but they’d been able to read about the building’s history from an informational display. It had been built in the late 1920s by a wealthy family named the Knights. They’d once hosted elaborate parties at the house and traveled by boat out to Fannette Island, where a little castlelike building had been constructed, and where they would continue with festivities started on the mainland.
I would love to live out here, Brandon remarked, closing his eyes again. There’s something peaceful about this place, don’t you think? I feel like…I don’t know. Like I belong here.
“Rene said he’s always felt the same way.” Tessa looked out across the water, listening to the soft slap of low-lying waves against the pebbled beach. She could smell the rich fragrance of pine sap in the wind and hear the low, comforting murmur as it rustled through tens of thousands of spindly needles in the boughs all around them. Every once in a while, the tranquil stillness was broken by the rustle and snap of a pinecone crashing down. There were no other visitors, no tourists; she and Brandon had the breadth of the beach and its wondrous view all to themselves. “Like he’d come home, he said.”
She thought of what it would be like to live there, as well, imagining Rene’s father coming to spend his summers at the lakeshore. Had he been acquainted with his neighbors, the Knights, who had built Vikingsholm? Had Rene’s family once picnicked on the shores of Emerald Bay with them, attended their lavish parties or sailed out to Fannette Island for cocktails and cards? The placard outside of the mansion said that the Knight family had helped to fund Charles Lindburgh’s famous flight around the world. Had Rene’s family helped as well, due to some association or friendship with the Knights?
It’s funny, Brandon said. I used to feel so trapped at the farm. All of that land, and I still felt like it was a cage. But here… He breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with air as if he couldn’t get enough, and stretched his arms out wide like he meant to embrace the horizon. Here, I feel free.
She smiled. It had been too long since she’d seen Brandon look so genuinely happy. For years at the great house, her twin had lived under a shadow of pervasive melancholia. To watch him now, it was like a heavy burden had been lifted off his shoulders; for the first time in as long as she could remember, Brandon looked free, happy and comfortable in his own skin.
You know, a few years ago, I overheard Dad thinking, he said. He opened his eyes and glanced to his right, meeting her gaze. He’d been drinking, so his mind was open, unguarded, he said. He didn’t know I could overhear him. He never meant for me to know.
“Know what?” Tessa asked.
Brandon smiled, somewhat wistful and sad. That he wished I’d died the night I was attacked, he said. That he’d prayed for it. He didn’t want me to suffer, to live my life like this.
“Brandon, that’s not true,” Tessa whispered.
Yes, it is, he replied. I told you—I saw it in his mind. He turned his eyes back to the water. I was so hurt, Tessa. I couldn’t even move. I just sat there, frozen solid, thinking at any moment, I was going to bust into tears like some dumb fucking baby and bawl all over the place.
“Brandon…” She touched his sleeve, heartbroken for him. As close as she’d always believed herself to be with Eleanor, Brandon had likewise been endeared with their father. Brandon had pretty much been Sebastian’s shadow as a child, finding comfort and companionship, somebody with whom he felt safe and loved in a house filled with other family members with whom he felt anything but.
He never meant for me to know, he said again. And it would have killed him to realize that I did. I could sense that, too. He smiled again, still mournful. Sometimes you can’t help how you feel. And sometimes you feel all different kinds of things for different people. Like Dad did for me.
His eyes had grown misty, clouded with a light sheen of tears, but he shoved his hands into the hip pockets of his jeans and blinked furiously, as if wanting to hide them from her. Maybe that’s how it was for Grandmother Eleanor and you, too.
“Brandon,” she began. “I told you—”
I know what you said, he cut in. But I’m sorry about what happened last night. I never wanted you to know about that. And I’m sure Grandmother Eleanor didn’t, either.
“It doesn’t matter,” Tessa said.
Yes, it does. Brandon turned to her. Dad never meant for me to know how he felt because he loved me. Just like Grandmother Eleanor loved you, too. I know because she gave you that green sapphire pendant.
“That?” Tessa uttered a sharp bark of laughter. “That necklace was a joke, Brandon. She probably lied to me about the whole thing, that the Grandfather had given it to her—his first gift, she’d told me. All of it was just a sick, cruel joke.” Her voice grew strained, her eyes stinging with tears and she looked away, pressing her lips together. Goddamn it, I’m not going to cry, she thought. Not this time. Not anymore—not about this!
Things were different for us, Brandon said. We had things differently in the great house—you, me, Grandmother Eleanor, all of us because of the Grandfather, because the Nobles were dominant. But you saw how things were in the Davenant house. You always knew how things were in the other clans. Grandmother Eleanor knew, too. She grew up like that, Tessa. That was all she’d ever known until she became a Noble.
He reached out, touching her shoulder. I don’t know why she said those things to me, he said. I don’t know what she felt. But I think she loved you. I don’t think she lied to you about that necklace. I think it was one of the things in this world that meant the most to her, and she gave it to you because she loved you. Because once you were married, once you were part of the Davenant house, she knew how things would be for you and wanted to make it better somehow—because she remembered how it was before she married the Grandfather. Hell, maybe you’re right—maybe he wasn’t always such a son of a bitch. Maybe they were in love.
“If he loved her, why would he kill her?” Tessa shrugged away from him. “Martin told me the Grandfather strangled her.”
Yeah, but you don’t know that, Brandon said. Not for sure. You—
“You’re right. I don’t know that. I don’t know anything for sure. Not anymore.” She turned, walking back toward the mansion. As she tromped across the beach, her tears spilled, leaving hot, damp streaks against her cold cheeks. She pulled her hands from her pockets one at a time to mop them away. The part of her that had loved Eleanor wanted so desperately for what Brandon had said to be true. The other part, which had been wounded to the core, was left torn and bewildered, unsure of how or what to think, feel or believe.
It doesn’t matter anyway, she told herself. Not what she said or what she meant or why she gave me that goddamn necklace. Monica took it. It’s gone now and I’ll never get it back.
Tessa… Brandon thought and she heard the crunch of his shoes in the sandy gravel as he followed her. Tessa, wait.
But she didn’t want to wait. She’d told him over breakfast she didn’t want to talk about it anymore, but he’d pushed the subject anyway. Damn it, Brandon, she thought, closing her mind to him, her brows furrowing with the conscientious effort to block him. It was turning out to be such a nice day, too. Couldn’t you have just left it alone?
Tessa—stop! Brandon snapped, his voice punching into her mind despite her best attempts to keep him out, sharp enough with concern that she paused.
“What is it?” All at once, she felt what had so alarmed her brother—a creeping, prickling sensation within her mind, raising the hairs along the nape of her neck.
Someone is here, Brandon said, but she already knew. She could sense it, too.
She turned and her breath cut abruptly short as she caught sight of a woman on the beach, striding briskly from the direction of a fishing pier jutting out over the water to the north. She was tall and reed-slender, dressed head to toe in a cream-colored blouse and slacks. There was no mistaking the fine sheaf of auburn hair that fluttered about her face in the wind, no mistaking her, but because there was no way Monica Davenant could be in California, much less on the same scrap of earth as the twins, Tessa simply stood there for a shocked, bewildered moment, frozen in place.
Oh, God, it wasn’t just a dream, she thought in horror. Last night when I saw her climbing through that window…grabbing that little girl…it wasn’t a dream at all! Oh, God, I was sensing her somehow!
Tessa, run! Brandon apparently didn’t need any introductions to Martin’s first wife. If he didn’t recognize her face, given what had been their limited acquaintance in Kentucky, he knew her by sensation alone—and knew she wasn’t there to extend either of them the welcome wagon. He turned to face Monica, positioning his body deliberately between her and Tessa. His hands folded into light, wary fists and Tessa watched his entire body tense.
Monica didn’t slow her pace in the least. “Where is Martin?” she asked, directing the question to Tessa, speaking as though Brandon wasn’t even there at all, like she was oblivious to his presence. She’d glutted herself on the little girl Tessa had dreamed about, and her body was still endowed from this, her strength heightened, her reflexes superhuman, nearly to the point where she would be impervious to pain. Her eyes were black and featureless beneath her furrowed brows, in stark and ghoulish contrast to her alabaster skin. Her fangs had almost fully descended. “You fucking bitch, what have you done to my husband?”
Tessa, run, Brandon said again, shooting her an urgent, frantic glance over his shoulder. Get out of here! Go!
When he stepped directly in Monica’s path, as if he meant to run into her headlong, she cut her icy glare in his direction. “You!” she spat, as if noticing who he was for the first time.
She might have said something else, more than this, but Brandon hooked his left fist around, smashing his knuckles into the side of her face. The force of the blow snapped her head toward her shoulder and nearly knocked her off her feet. She stumbled, regaining her footing, and pressed her hand to her cheek. “Bastard,” she hissed, her brows furrowing more deeply. Blood dribbled in a thin line from her left nostril as she spoke; she turned her head and spat more out against the grass. “You little bastard!”
She marched toward him and Brandon swung at her again, a swift punch aimed expertly for her nose. Monica whipped her head to one side, raising her hand, catching Brandon’s fist squarely against her palm. Tessa heard the sharp, startled intake of his breath and then Monica threw him by the arm, wrenching him off his feet and sending him sailing like a rag doll tossed by a toddler in the throes of a tantrum.
“Brandon!” Tessa cried.
He landed hard, slamming to the ground and tumbling down to the water’s edge, where he lay facedown and still for a long, breathless, stunned moment. Tessa… He raised his head, his dazed eyes finding hers. For God’s sake…run!
Tessa turned and bolted toward the house. She had no intention of abandoning her brother, especially not with Monica fully imbued with the power of the bloodlust. But she knew she had to get the woman away from Brandon. She’ll kill him—kill us both. My only chance is to lose her in the woods, double back, grab Brandon and get to the car.
Rene had kept his Sig Sauer in the glove box of the Audi. Had he moved it to the Jaguar or was it back at the motel? She didn’t know, and cursed herself now for not having grabbed the other pistol he’d left out on the nightstand that morning.
She heard Monica following, her footsteps quick in the grass. At a loud, unexpected crash and a grunt for breath, she wheeled about. Brandon had clambered to his feet and given chase; he’d tackled Monica and pinned her against the lawn by straddling her waist, holding her wrists in his hands. Monica thrashed wildly beneath him and as he struggled to hold her down, he looked up at Tessa again.
Go! he yelled in her mind.
Not without you! she cried back, rushing toward him. She didn’t know what she meant to do, but she couldn’t—wouldn’t—leave him.
Tessa, goddamn it, I said—! Brandon began, and then Monica rammed her knee brutally into his crotch.
“Brandon!” Tessa cried. He uttered a choked gasp, the wind and fight effectively plowed from him. He collapsed helplessly onto his side, his face was twisted and flushed with pain, his entire body shuddering as Monica wiggled out from beneath him. She stumbled to her feet and kicked him hard, driving the pointed toe of her shoe into the small of his back.
Brandon had only fed twice before; he was still unfamiliar with the bloodlust, uncertain of how to use it, but it had been years since Tessa’s bloodletting and she had fed many, many times. At the sight of her brother writhing in pain against the grass, Tessa felt it surge within her like something alive and electric. The world grew bright, dazzling and glaring as her pupils expanded, flooding her corneas. She tasted a coppery rush of saliva in her mouth, felt a sudden, throbbing ache as her canine teeth dropped. As she marched across the lawn toward Monica and Brandon, her hands closed into fierce fists, her stride broad and brisk, and she shook her head, listening to the dull, moist pop as her lower jaw snapped loose of its hinges.
“Keep your”—she caught Monica by the shoulder as the older woman reached down, meaning to grab Brandon by the scruff of his collar and haul him to his feet.—“fucking hands off him.”
Monica’s eyes flew wide as Tessa wheeled her about. She grabbed Monica by the throat and heaved mightily, hurling her skyward. Monica flew ass over elbows across the beach, slamming facefirst into the broad trunk of a pine tree and crashing in a heap to the ground. Tessa didn’t give her a moment to recover; she crouched low to the ground, then sprang into the air, her long legs unfurling as she leapt, catlike. For a moment, she seemed to hang suspended in the air, the way a hummingbird will be caught in limbo between momentum and stillness as it hovers at a feeder, and then, just as Monica began to sit up, her red hair tangled in her face, Tessa plowed into her, knocking her back into the dirt.
“Gunnnnnngh!” Tessa landed hard against Monica’s back and grunted as Monica snapped her elbow back, smashing into her chin, stunning her. Monica bucked, heaving herself onto her hands and knees, and Tessa pitched sideways, sprawling against a heavy carpet of fallen pine needles.
“You bitch—” Monica began, her brows furrowed, then Tessa drove the heel of her shoe into her face, mashing her lips into her teeth and rocking her head back on her neck.
“Go fuck yourself, Monica,” Tessa seethed, but when she drew her leg back to punt again, Monica grabbed her suddenly, furiously by the ankle.
“I’m going to enjoy making you bleed, you little cunt,” Monica said, and Tessa yelped as she flung her, hoisting her effortlessly from the ground and sending her careening across the yard. Low-hanging pine boughs slapped against her face, tugging at her hair, and then she crashed to the ground.
The baby! Tessa thought in bright alarm, curling herself into a ball the split second before impact, trying to shield her belly from the brunt of the blow. She rolled against the grass, barking her hip and shoulder painfully, knocking the wind momentarily from herself.
She struggled to rise, forcing herself to move, to get her feet beneath her. She couldn’t fight Monica, not face-to-face or hand to hand, not if she meant to protect the baby. There was no way. She fed just last night—she’s too strong, she realized.
Brandon, get to the car, she thought, stumbling upright. We have to get out of here. I’m going to try and lose her in the woods. Meet me at the—
She felt a hand close suddenly, firmly against her sleeve, jerking her about, and she balled her hand into a fist and let it fly, using the momentum as she pivoted to her advantage. Her knuckles plowed into Monica’s cheek, snapping her head to the side and sent her stumbling, her fingers loosening from Tessa’s coat. She cut her eyes to Tessa, her black, featureless, furious gaze, and when Tessa moved to backhand her, she caught her by the fist. “You”—she seethed, reaching out with her free hand and seizing Tessa by the collar of her ski parka.—“aren’t going…anywhere!”
Tessa yelped as Monica threw her again, sending her sailing into the air. Her voice ripped up into a scream as she crashed through one of the large picture windows on the second story of the house. Glass exploded all around her, slicing into her face, scalp and hands as she desperately tried to shield herself from the stinging spray. She sailed across the breadth of the room, smashing into a doorway and slamming to the floor, splintering a decorative wooden beam hanging above the threshold as she went. The impact knocked the breath from her and she lay crumpled against the floor, surrounded by thousands of glass shards, gulping for air.
Oh, God…the baby!
Her hand darted for her stomach and she opened her mind, straining to feel the soft glow of the child’s presence within her. After a long, seemingly endless moment in which she couldn’t seem to breathe, she felt it, dim but apparent, still nestled safely inside of her womb. For now, anyway, she thought, closing her eyes and heaving a relieved sigh. I’ve got to get out of here, away from Monica.
Tessa! she heard Brandon cry, his voice shrill with frantic alarm.
Brandon, get to the car, she thought again. Blood streamed down her face in countless thin rivulets and a rainfall of glass pieces spilled from her hair and shoulders as she sat up. Run toward the trees and…and double back…lose Monica if you can. She looked around, pressing the heel of her hand to her aching head, struggling dazedly to find the nearest doorway. She…she’s too strong…don’t try to fight her. Just run. I’ll meet you at the car.
Vikingsholm had been built with classical Norse architecture in mind, and she found herself blinking down at the remnants of the crossbeam she’d smashed into; a Nordic-inspired carved wooden snake or dragon of some sort that had been suspended by two iron chains from the exposed beams of the ceiling, its mouth agape, its tongue protruding to form the shape of a rudimentary trident.
She looked back toward the shattered window and shrank in surprise as Monica crawled into view, hauling herself up and over the broken windowsill. She’d climbed up the exterior of the house as nimbly as any squirrel, by hooking her fingertips and the pointed toes of her Jimmy Choo stiletto heels into the mortar nooks and crannies along the mansion’s stone façade. Now her French manicured nails were ragged, her fingers scraped or torn raw and bloody in places.
She shambled toward Tessa, teetering on her spiked heels, splinters of glass crunching beneath her. “Tell me where Martin is!” Her words lisped around the unhinged maw of her mouth.
Tessa snatched the nearest weapon she could find—a heavy, sharp-tipped fireplace poker from a stand beside a nearby fireplace—and whirled, grasping the handle between her palms, swinging it like a baseball bat. The iron hook caught Monica squarely in the cheek, snapping her head sideways toward her shoulder and ripping back a broad flap of skin and meat from her face. There was a sickening, moist crunch as bone splintered at the impact and Monica crumpled to her hands and knees.
“Bitch…!” she wheezed, glaring up at Tessa, her flesh flapping freely against her face like some kind of grisly, half-assed mask. There was blood in her hair now, blood in her teeth, smeared into her scalp and down the front of her shirt.
Tessa reared the poker back in her hands like a golf club to swing again, but Monica leaped up, surprising her with a forceful tackle that sent them both crashing to the floor. The poker flew from Tessa’s fingers; Monica landed heavily against her, crushing the air from her lungs. They grappled together, struggling and thrashing, and Monica coiled her fingers in Tessa’s hair, grasping her above either ear.
“I’ll kill you!” she screamed, slamming Tessa’s head against the floor once, twice, three violent, furious times, until Tessa tasted blood in her mouth and her line of sight danced with a dizzying array of lights. “You and your goddamn brother! I’ll tear you both apart with my goddamn hands—now you tell me where my husband is!”
“Get off me!” Tessa cried, wedging her foot between them, planting her heel against Monica’s midriff. She punted mightily, kicking Monica away, sending her across the room and plowing into laden bookshelves. Heavy, leather-bound volumes tumbled to the floor as Monica crumpled. She moved slowly, her hands first, then her legs, groaning.
Tessa scrambled to her feet, bleeding and limping, and tried to reach the remaining fireplace tools. Her fingers groped for frantic purchase against the handle of a coal shovel, and when Monica grabbed her from behind, Tessa whirled, sending the iron shovel blade smashing into the side of Monica’s head, knocking her sideways and to the ground again.
“You want Martin?” Tessa said, hoisting the shovel again, driving the blade down in a forceful arc into the back of Monica’s skull. “Go and find him, you fucking bitch.” She reared the shovel back and swung it down again, the iron spade dented now from the repeated, brutal impacts. “Go outside and hunt him down, you nasty piece of shit Davenant whore!”
Again and again, she beat Monica, until the other woman lay facedown on the floor, struggling vainly to cover her head with her hands. All the while, images flashed in her mind—of Martin dragging her down to the laundry room and whipping her with his belt because she hadn’t starched his shirts to his liking; of Monica snatching the green sapphire pendant from around her neck, her voice cold and mocking. It’s mine now.
“How do you like it, Monica?” Tessa cried, smashing her head with the shovel. All of the times Martin had beaten her black and blue, all of the times he’d hurt her, shamed her, bullied her, frightened her, and all the while he’d treated Monica like a queen; Monica had never known a moment’s hardship or suffering under his roof.
“How do you like it?” Tessa screamed, and she didn’t even realize she was weeping, her body racked with sobs, as again and again, she swung the shovel. “How does it feel, you bitch?”
Finally, she stumbled backward, hiccuping for breath, the shovel dropping from her hands. Monica lay motionless, facedown against the floor, her auburn hair matted and stained with blood. Tessa stood there for a long, stunned moment as the bloodlust drained from her, the adrenaline that had infused her waning, leaving her with nothing but shock and horror at the realization of what she’d done.
“Oh…” she whispered, shuddering. “Oh…oh, God…”
Tessa! Brandon screamed. She could hear a heavy, desperate pounding from somewhere downstairs as he tried to batter down one of the doors. He was trapped down on the beach, unable to climb up the wall as Monica had done because without the bloodlust he was, for all intents and purposes, little better than a human. Tessa! I’m coming!
“It’s too late,” Tessa whispered even though he couldn’t hear her. She turned around and went to push her hair back from her face. Her hands were blood-smeared and she blinked in aghast horror at her palms. “Oh, God, I killed her.”
Although the Brethren thought nothing of killing humans, it was forbidden that any of them kill another of their own kind. Only the Elders could demand or deliver the death of a fellow Brethren, and only then, by the most extreme of circumstances or offenses. Murder was a human sin; a failing suffered by those beneath the Brethren race, and more than that, it was considered a travesty, an abhorrence punishable by death.
“Oh, God,” Tessa whispered again, because until that moment, she would have only been punished had the Elders found her again for leaving the farm, defying her husband and the rules of the Brethren. She would have suffered considerably, of that she had no doubt…
…but now? she thought in horror. Now there would be no mercy for her; nothing anyone could say or do to protect her. Or my baby. She pressed her hands against her belly and closed her eyes. Oh, God, they’ll take my baby and kill me now.
She heard a soft sound from behind her, a faint scratching and started to turn. Monica leaped up—very much alive and very much pissed off—and her hand clamped against Tessa’s throat. Tessa yelped, breathless and startled, as Monica slammed her back against the nearest bookcase, pinning her with her feet off the ground.
“You…fucking bitch!” Monica screeched, blood and spittle flying from her lips, the bones of her jaw, her teeth standing out in stark, gruesome contrast to the red, spongy meat beneath her torn, ruined skin. Tessa saw a blur of movement out of the corner of her eye, then Monica rammed the business-end of the cast-iron fireplace poker through her midriff.
Tessa cried out, choked and strained, as the barbed end punched through her belly, spearing through the meat of her gut and thrusting out of her back just shy of her spine. The pain was immediate and indescribable, more excruciating than anything she might have ever even imagined possible.
Oh, God! she thought, as Monica turned loose of her throat, leaving her to stagger clumsily sideways, the strength in her legs abandoning her. She blinked in stunned, aghast horror at the shaft of the poker protruding from her belly, the handle blood-smeared and jutting less than a few inches beneath the edge of her breastbone. Already a bright, scarlet stain had started to spread at the point of impact, seeping through the heavy down filling of her ski coat and soaking the pale pink nylon exterior. Oh, God…my baby!
“I’ll kill you!” Monica seethed, her lips smeared with bloody froth. She wrapped her hands around the handle of the poker and Tessa screamed, her voice ripping shrilly as Monica jerked her off her feet, swinging her by the poker, throwing her the length of the room. Tessa could feel the hooked tip of the implement ripping through flesh as it was wrenched back out of her body; it flew free just as Monica threw her, sending a trail of blood slapping up against the ceiling, spraying Tessa in the face.
Tessa smashed against another bookshelf and collapsed into a shuddering heap against the floor. The pain was too much, too great; she couldn’t move save to press her hand against her belly. The front of her coat was soaked now with blood; she stared down at it in shock, watching as it dribbled down the contours of her knuckles, streamed along her fingers in steady, thickening rivulets. She couldn’t sense the baby; there was nothing but the pain and a terrible, leaden coldness that seemed to have filled her, swallowing that fragile corner of light and warmth where once she’d been able to feel her child growing.
Oh…oh, God…oh, no, please!
She looked up, her eyes flooded with tears, her mind fading rapidly to shadows and saw Monica leap at her. It was almost like watching something out of a movie; Monica moved as if in slow motion, her footsteps plodding and clumsy. When she sprang forward, hands outstretched, her fingers blood-smeared and hooked into claws, Tessa shrank, cowering.
Oh, God, no, please not my baby, she thought, and out of the corner of her eye, lying among broken glass shards, fallen books and splintered wood, she spied the broken end of the shattered decorative dragon beam.
At this, she felt something in her galvanized, some fire she might have once attributed to her grandmother Eleanor but now realized was her own—her own strength and determination—reigniting in full, furious force. She shrieked in agonized protest, and curled her fingers around the shaft of wood.
“Not my baby!” she screamed, swinging her arm up just as Monica began to tackle her, smashing the dragon’s head—gape-mouthed and fork-tongued—directly into Monica’s. The trident of sharp points at its lips, the spear of its tongue punched into the side of Monica’s skull, crushing bone and mashing brain matter, burying clear to the delta of its wooden jaws.
She uttered a startled squawk; Tessa realized she could see the dragon’s bottom jaw bisecting the roof of Monica’s mouth in a grim, gruesome plane and then a thin stream of blood suddenly dripped down from Monica’s right nostril, spattering against her face. Monica blinked in dazed fascination at the glistening droplets as they rolled down Tessa’s cheek, then her gaze cut to Tessa’s.
“You…you can’t…” she began, then her eyes rolled back into her skull, black yielding to white, and she crashed sideways, falling to the rug in a still and sudden heap.
Oh, God! Tessa kicked Monica’s legs and hips, knocking her away. The shaft of the broken crossbeam jutted skyward at a listing angle from Monica’s head; beneath her, blood pooled against the Oriental rug, spilling from her mouth and nose, the grisly wounds to her face and skull.
Tessa pressed her hands to her stomach and rolled onto her side, curling up into a fetal coil as her tears spilled. She didn’t even hear Brandon come rushing into the room, his footsteps heavy and frantic. When he collapsed to his knees beside her, trying to touch her, she recoiled and screamed, punching at him, trying to punt him away.
Tessa, it’s me! It’s Brandon! he said in her mind. Tessa, I’m sorry! I couldn’t get inside! I had to break a window! I couldn’t find you…I could hear you screaming but I…I couldn’t…
His hands stopped fluttering about her when he caught sight of the blood. Oh, Jesus, you’re bleeding! he cried, his voice shrill and panicked. What happened? Oh…oh, Christ, are you all right? Tessa! Tessa, please, answer me!
“Oh…oh, God…!” she wept as her twin clutched at her. She clapped her hands over her face and shuddered against the floor. “My baby,” she gasped. “Oh…oh, God, Brandon…she killed my baby!”