Dark Vengeance Part 2 Read online

  DARK VENGEANCE PART TWO

  Book Six in The Brethren Series

  by Sara Reinke

  Edited by Andria Whitson

  Published by Bloodhorse Press at Smashwords

  Copyright 2014 Sara Reinke

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  Brandon Noble jerked, startled from the depths of dreamless sleep as something struck him in the head. Bewildered, he drew his hand toward his face. A pillow? he thought in surprise.

  Before he could even process this peculiar development, he felt something tucked snugly around his shoulders—blankets—suddenly jerk backwards, away from his body, as someone gave them a mighty yank. With a gasp, he scrambled up, pressing back against the headboard of a bed, blinking in dazed alarm at his assailant.

  Lina…? he thought, stunned, his eyes widening.

  Inexplicably—impossibly—she stood at the foot of the bed, a mischievous grin on her face, holding the tangled bedclothes in her hands. “Come on, lazy bones,” she said with a laugh. “Are you going to sleep the day away?”

  I…I…but you…you can’t… he stammered helplessly, shocked beyond words. He looked around in mounting confusion and realized he was in their bedroom, in the bungalow they’d shared on the Morin clan compound in Lake Tahoe, with walls and beams crafted from buttery pine timbers, and towering windows providing expansive views of the surrounding lakeside woodlands.

  What am I doing here? he thought, at a complete loss. Then, blinking at Lina again, he raised his trembling hands and managed to sign: What are you doing here?

  Her bright, beautiful smile widened at this; she clearly thought he was joking around. “I live here, last time I checked. Same as you.” Leaning down, she grabbed another pillow, then marched around the side of the bed toward him. “Now come on. Get a move on. You’re burning daylight.”

  Is she real? he thought, and as she swung the pillow playfully at him, he caught it. They tussled together over it momentarily, and he couldn’t help but laugh soundlessly because it all felt so real, so normal. She laughed as he pulled the pillow out of her hands, and before she could draw back, he caught her wrists. When he gave a gentle tug, she fell against him; he could feel her breasts through the thin fabric of her T-shirt, her nipples pressing into his chest. She put her arms around his neck, and he could smell her—that sweet, familiar fragrance of her skin, hair, breath and blood.

  Real, he thought, as Lina drew her legs onto the bed, wrapping them around his waist and settling herself rather invitingly in his lap. She’s real. I don’t know how this can be happening—there’s no way this can be happening—but it is somehow. She’s real. I can feel her, smell her…taste her…

  He clasped his hands to her face and pulled her near, kissing her fiercely. He felt the vibration of her low, hungry moan; felt her nipples grow harder at this intense, passionate contact. Immediately, her heart rate quickened; he could sense this, could smell the heady rush of blood this sent coursing through her veins in response to her sudden arousal.

  “Wow,” she gasped as they drew apart. He kept his hands pressed to her face, holding her near, their foreheads touching. “What’s gotten into you this morning? I mean, I like it. Don’t get me wrong, it’s just…”

  I don’t know. He shook his head helplessly, then looked into her eyes. I don’t understand what’s going on. This can’t be real. You can’t be real.

  Her brows lifted, her expression softening with sudden concern. What are you talking about? she thought to him, touching his face, brushing his hair back from his brow. Brandon, of course this is real. I’m real.

  Didn’t we go to Florida? he asked. We drove there together, you and me, to see your mom and Jackson. Only…

  His mental voice faded and he kept the rest to himself: Only everything went wrong, horribly wrong, Lina. I met Pilar—I ruined everything for us. I pushed you away…forced you to leave me…

  “Hey.” Lina ducked her head, kissing him lightly to draw his distracted gaze. “We talked about going to Florida. But I thought we’d decided to do that later on toward the fall. Didn’t you want to go back to Kentucky for awhile and see your mom and dad?”

  He jerked as if she’d just sucker-punched him in the balls. My dad?

  “Yeah.” She nodded, looking puzzled.

  But… He looked at her, helpless. But my dad’s dead.

  Lina drew back. “What? No, Brandon. You just texted him last night. Your dad’s fine.”

  What? Stunned anew, he shook his head. No, that…that’s not possible.

  Lina reached for the bedside table, picking up his cell phone.

  Didn’t I lose that? he thought dimly, as she presented it to him, tapping the screen with her fingertip to call up his most recent text message conversations. I thought I had…when I helped Jackson move…

  But this thought disappeared as he glanced down at the phone and felt all of the blood abruptly drain from his face, leaving him ice-cold and leaden, inside and out. At the top of the screen, he could see the recipient of his messages listed in bold letters: DAD.

  Beneath this, a series of bubbles, some in green—Brandon’s messages—and some in grey—the responses.

  One of the most recent read: Would love to have you. You don’t even have to ask. The door is always open.

  And Brandon had replied: Thanx, Dad. I really appreciate it.

  Dad, he thought, tremulous and stunned. He’s alive. How is that possible?

  Lina touched his face again to draw his gaze, and when he looked up, he saw her eyes were round with worry. I’m frightening her, he realized. Which was okay, he supposed. Because I’m scaring the shit out of myself, too.

  “Did you have a nightmare?” she asked.

  I must have, he thought, not to her, but to himself. I must have had a horrible nightmare, or dozens of them, maybe—one right after the other. I imagined such awful things…horrible things…

  Kiss me again, he thought to her, pulling her into him, pressing his lips to hers once more. He needed to cement the sensation of her—the reality of her—into his brain; he needed to cling to it, to her, and never let go again. Lina relaxed in his arms, yielding to his kiss, tightening her embrace around his neck. Her tongue was sweet and soft against his, dragging in slow-moving circles as if she savored the taste of him. Again her nipples hardened, and this time, he slid his hands from her face, down the length of her neck, past her collar to caress them, to roll them between his fingertips through her T-shirt. He felt the vibration in her throat and mouth as she moaned; felt her lean forward all the more, pressing herself into his hands, his touch. He smelled the sudden, musky rush of her arousal flooding between her thighs, and in one swift movement, he rolled over with her, pinning her beneath him, her legs twined around his hips.

  Make love to me, she whispered in his min
d, and he nodded. She raised her arms as he pulled her T-shirt up toward her head; once removed, he cast it aside, then reached between them, shoving the hem of her panties down. He leaned over, encircling one of her nipples with his lips, letting his tongue slide against it. He could feel her breath hitching with each stroke of his tongue; she knotted her fingers in his hair, clutching at him. He reached between them; she was already wet, her crevice warm and inviting, ready for him, and he let his fingers glide between her moist, slick folds toward her clit. Lina rocked against his hand when he found it and he began rubbing against the nub of sensitive, sweet flesh with his thumb, matching the rhythm of her hips. After a few moments of touching her here, feeling her grind against him, he let his mouth take the place of his hand.

  God, she was so wet; he drew his tongue hungrily against her trembling folds, drawing the swollen bud of her clit gently between his tongue and teeth, making Lina grip his hair with sudden, eager ferocity. As he worked her clit with his tongue, licking and teasing her, he slid his fingers into her tight, hot sheath—first one, then two, then three, stroking her in and out, slowly at first, then quickening his tempo. He could sense her heart pounding, could smell the coursing blood in her veins, could feel the muscles in her thighs, her belly, her body tensing as she neared climax.

  By this point, his own arousal was so pronounced, it was nearly painful to him. Dragging his mouth away from her clit, he let her clasp his face between her hands and pull him up to kiss her. Her legs clamped around him as he moved and he filled her in a single stroke; she was so wet, so ready, so hungry for him, there was nothing to impede him, nothing to stop or slow him down. He groaned to feel her amazing heat, her incredible softness engulfing him.

  I’ll never get tired of this, he thought, gazing down at her, watching as she arched her back, straining to match his pace. Her eyes were closed, her face glossed with a dewy sheen of perspiration. Her breasts bounced with each thrust, her nipples straining for his touch, his kiss. I’ll never get tired of making love to this woman…

  I love you, he whispered as she came, clutching at his arms, throwing back her head with a soft cry. He felt her entire body tensing, and as she did, release shuddered through him, powerful and intense. In its aftermath, he crumpled atop her, trembling.

  I love you, too, she said as she stroked his hair, then kissed the top of his head. God, Brandon, always and forever—I love you, too.

  Within moments, she fell asleep. Brandon lay spooned against her, his chest facing her back, the curves of her buttocks and spine resting in perfect complement with his own body’s contours. Her hair, a tousled mess of dark, springy curls, tickled the underside of his nose. He had his hand draped lightly over the slim indention of her waist, his fingers loosely twined through hers.

  I don’t understand this—any of it, Brandon thought. But he found he no longer had the heart to question it. Because this is what I want—you’re what I want, Lina, he thought, breathing in the perfume of her scent, and kissing her lightly through her hair. You’re what I need.

  Although he was loath to leave her, he slowly drew free from their embrace and slipped out of bed. Leaving her curled on her side, her body draped in blankets, he pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Grabbing his cell phone, Brandon padded softly toward the bedroom doorway. Here, he paused, glancing over his shoulder, watching as she dozed, cat-like and comfortable, in a sunbeam.

  God, you’re beautiful, he thought, the corners of his mouth lifting in a soft smile. I want this every day, for the rest of my life. I want you.

  He wandered through the chateau, and everything was just as he remembered. It had come pre-furnished, courtesy of the Morins, but Lina had added her own touches here and there to the décor: a tabletop sculpture of a moose made from old paint cans, springs and cogs in the living room bought during an outing to an art gallery with Tessa; a framed photograph of her and Brandon taken outside one of the gaudy casino exteriors on the Nevada side of the lake; a bowl of giant pinecones—each bigger than a softball—she’d collected from the yard outside. He gazed out the bay windows in the living room and found everything outside just as he’d known it, too—flawless azure sky, clustered stands of towering evergreen trees, the distant but distinct cerulean plane of Emerald Bay below.

  It was a beautiful place, a peaceful place, and as it always did, it made Brandon feel at ease simply to be there, bearing mute witness to its splendor.

  He sat down on the couch and looked down at the cell phone in his hand. Again, it occurred to him—floating to mind, as if something rancid bobbing briefly to the surface in a murky pond—that the phone was supposed to be lost.

  When Jackson moved out of his mother’s house in Florida, he thought. His head hurt, a sudden burst, a throbbing ache just behind his eyes, and with a frown, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Only I didn’t go to Florida. So I couldn’t have lost my phone there. Besides… He opened his eyes, blinking down at the iPhone in his hand. …I have it right here. That’s proof I didn’t lose it.

  He opened his messages as Lina had done, and felt his heart quicken with excitement as he saw Sebastian’s name and number pop up. If losing his phone had been just a dream, then…

  Then losing my dad must’ve been one, too, he thought, tapping on the touchscreen keypad, and typing a message: Hey, Dad—are you busy?

  For a long moment, he couldn’t send the message, even though he knew it was ridiculous to hesitate. The idea that Sebastian was gone had been so powerful and poignant within him; to realize now that he wasn’t, that Brandon could have another chance—countless chances—to talk to him, text him, interact with him was damn near overwhelming.

  But almost as soon as he pressed send, the phone vibrated in his hand, not because Sebastian’s response had been so quickly forthcoming, but because a dialogue box had appeared onscreen: Signal lost. Message not sent. Please try again.

  What? With a frown, Brandon held up the phone: no bars, no signal, no reception. He rose to his feet and walked closer to the windows, but still had no luck. He moved around the house, going from room to room; he turned the phone off and on again, but no matter what he tried, he couldn’t get a transmission signal. Shrugging on a lightweight jacket, he stepped out onto the deck to see if the reception was any better. But it wasn’t.

  Damn it, Brandon thought with a deepening frown, as he glared, frustrated, at the impotent phone in his hand. It had apparently worked last night—there was the conversation he’d had with his father right there on the screen to prove it. But still, Brandon had no memory of that conversation, not even the distant, dream-like sort in which Sebastian had died, or that he had lost his cell phone. That utter lack of memory did more than trouble Brandon. It pained him.

  Because I feel cheated somehow, he thought, as ridiculous as it sounded. He felt desperate now to get in touch with Sebastian, to prove to himself that this was reality, and everything else—all of the half-memories bobbing and percolating in the back of his mind—were dreams. I want to talk to my dad. Even if it’s only through a stupid goddamn text, I want to talk to…

  All at once, Brandon’s attention snapped from the phone in his hand to the woods, his brows narrowing, his entire body growing instantly tense. He could sense another Brethren, that distinctive, tingling sensation that meant another like him was nearby. Normally at the Morin compound, this wouldn’t have alarmed him because the only ones there were Brethren. But in that moment, as he felt that unmistakable awareness of other Brethren within his proximity, he realized he hadn’t been feeling it all along as he’d grown accustomed. It was like the entire area was completely empty, at least of other vampires—until now.

  Below him, through the tangle of trees, Brandon saw him, a Brethren man looking up at the bungalow—most specifically, at Brandon. His eyes were a clear, nearly lucent shade of blue, like the waters of Lake Tahoe. He reached for Brandon as if desperately imploring, his fingers splayed wide, and his arm had been stripped of any visible flesh, flayed so th
at the bright red meat of his muscles lay gruesomely exposed. Blood spattered in fat droplets onto the ground and the pine needles beneath him were stained scarlet.

  Please… the man gasped, and Brandon knew his face, his eyes—his name.

  Aaron.

  Please… Aaron begged, his eyes glassy with pain, wide with alarm. Don’t…!

  * * *

  Like a rubber band that’s been stretched too far, then snapped back with sudden, violent recoil, Brandon jerked in surprise, his eyes flying wide. He had a bewildered moment to realize both the man in the hoodie and the lakefront chateau were gone, and that he flailed his legs over the open air before he crashed onto the floor, landing on his ass with a breathless grunt and banging the side of his head and elbow simultaneously against a nearby coffee table.

  Ow! What the…? Confused, Brandon blinked at the couch on his left—upon which he’d apparently been sleeping—and the coffee table to his right. He lay somewhat sprawled, somewhat slumped in between them, with a blanket tangled around his legs.

  Dreaming, he thought. He raised his hand to fork his fingers through his hair, and saw they were shaking. I was dreaming again.

  He felt the floor boards tremble beneath him with approaching footsteps. Glancing behind him, he hunched his shoulders sheepishly to see the concern in Jackson’s face.

  You OK? Jackson signed to Brandon. Dressed in a pair of cargo shorts and a white wife-beater style T-shirt, he’d apparently been shaving, and carried a towel flipped purposefully over one shoulder, spatters of shaving foam still dotting the gleaming dome of his head. I felt the thud when you went down.

  Yeah. Brandon tipped a nod with one of his fists, feeling bright, embarrassed color blooming in his cheeks.

  You know, you might sleep better on the couch instead of the floor, Jackson signed, the corner of his mouth hooking wryly.

  When Brandon replied by using only his extended middle finger, Jackson laughed. Turning around, he walked back into the bedroom, heading for the bathroom beyond.