Out of the Dark (The Brethren Series) (28 page)

“I don’t know,” he whispered.

But
God, I hope it doesn’t come to that,
he thought.
Because I sure as hell don’t want to find out.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Naima stood in the grass, her head tilted back, watching as Aaron nimbly scaled the outer wall of the clinic, climbing toward one of the office windows.

“The alarm will be set,” she’d warned him before he’d set off.

“I know,” he’d replied, and he had dug around in the Escalade’s glove box before finding something he apparently considered useful: a pair of fingernail clippers.

“That’s going to get you past the security sensors?” she asked with a dubious frown.

“We’re about to find out.”.

Using her telekinesis, Naima raised herself, allowing her body to float like a helium balloon in a slow, but steady ascent. It was a tricky task, one that took a lot of concentration—and the hope that a gust of wind wouldn’t come out of nowhere and smack her gracelessly into the side of the building—but within moments, she
was level with the window.

He’d reached it already, balancing his weight in some precarious way with his toes digging into miniscule crevices in the mortar. Sparing her a glance, he reached for the pocket of his jacket. “Show off.”

He pulled out the clippers, then leaned closer to the window, studying the frame. He found the slim black wire running from the sensor panel to the alarm’s electrical box. Using the nail pick tool, he worked the tip beneath and worked at it, wiggling until it came loose. Then he used the clippers to cut the line.

He winked at Naima and she rolled her eyes.
“Show off,” she said.

He slid the window open and stole inside. She floated in after him
and watched as

he
drew back the curtains on the other windows in the room, letting pale light filter inside. “There are two humans here,” he said quietly.

Naima opened her mind. “Karen, our nurse,” she said. “And Kate. She’s married to my cousin.”

“There’s someone else, too.” Aaron frowned, puzzled. “I think he’s Brethren.”

“That’s Ethan,” she said. “He’s Kate’s grandson.”

“He’s a half-breed?” He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“You mean like me?” she returned, eyes flashing hotly. When he realized his blunder and tried to stammer his way out of it, she cut him short. “Michel always encouraged the clan to intermingle and breed with humans.”

“I didn’t mean anything by that,” he said. “The half-breed thing.”

“Fine.” She pulled open one of the desk drawers and pushed through the papers inside.

“I don’t have a problem with it,” he continued. “I’m just getting used to it, that’s all. I mean, I’m used to sensing either Brethren or human. You’re different, that’s all. I mean,
it’s
different. Sensing you, I mean. The way you—”

“Drop it, Aaron,” she warned.

“Dropping it,” he said with a nod, turning his attention to a filing cabinet drawer as he rooted through it. But after a moment, he glanced at her, curious. “Have you ever? Intermingled and bred witha human, I mean.”

She frowned. “I
was married to one once, yes. But we didn’t have any children.”

“Oh.” He opened another drawer and started sifting again. “Good guy, then?” he asked after a moment. “Your human?”

“His name was Terrance. And yes, he was.”

“He still around? I mean, are you two still…”

Naima sighed in exasperation, slapping her hands on top of the desk. “Terrance died in 1959 of cirrhosis. He was a chronic alcoholic. We’d split up long before that.”

“Oh. Sorry.”
Aaron nodded. Squatting, he tried to open the last drawer in a stacking file cabinet. Apparently it was locked, because he pulled the fingernail clippers out, flipped open the nail pick again, and dug it into the little lock on the drawer’s front. “So is that why you split? The chronic alcohol thing?”

“
It didn’t help matters,” she replied. Then, before he could ask anything else: “How about you? Have
you
ever been married?”

“Nope,” he replied. “Never even came close. I travel a lot. Makes it hard.” With a metallic pop, the lock yielded, and he pulled the drawer open.
“Hot damn.”

Reaching into the drawer, he pulled out his iPhone, wallet and .45 caliber Heckler and Kock. The clip had been removed, but not stowed separately, and he slapped it home
. “My rifle’s still missing, but for now, this will work.”

“Good,” she growled, pushing the desk drawer closed and standing up. “Let’s get the hell out of here before someone…”

The door between the office and clinic swung open, and Karen walked in, carrying a manila file folder tucked in her arm. She had a half-second to realize Naima stood behind the desk—her expression shifted from startled surprise to a hesitant, if not somewhat bewildered smile—and then she caught sight of Aaron. And more specifically, his gun.

“Oh—!” With a gasp, she dropped the folder, and immediately backpedaled, her eyes flown wide.

“Karen, wait—” Naima began, and then Aaron dropped her with a telepathic blow.

Karen fell hard, her body jerking once, violently, before crumpling lifelessly to the floor. She hadn’t even had time to cry out, but it didn’t matter. Kate must have been right behind her, or close enough at hand to see her fall, because all at once, she charged through the office doorway, gun in her hands. She didn’t even seem to see Naima; her wide, panic-stricken eyes were riveted on Aaron. So was the muzzle of her rifle.

“You!”
she exclaimed, breathless with fright, and then she pulled the trigger.

The report of gunfire was deafening within the tight confines of the office. Naima cried out—“Kate, no!”—but her voice was lost in that thunderous din. A cloud of smoke, thin, grey and pungent swept through the room.

“Ethan!” she heard Kate cry out, frantic and shrill.
“Run!”

Naima heard her
yelp, and then another loud
thud;
Aaron had stunned her psionically, knocking her out cold. As the smoke cleared, Naima could see her lying in a heap, sprawled across Karen’s legs near the doorway. Instead of heeding his grandmother’s warning, Ethan came staggering in, coughing against the smoke, stumbling over the fallen women. He was carrying his rifle, but when he saw Aaron, the gun tumbled from his hands. He backpedaled, his eyes enormous, his face ashen. Wheeling clumsily around, he bolted.

Aaron started after him, and to Naima’s horror, he swung his gun arm up, the muzzle of the pistol aiming for Ethan’s back, as if he intended to shoot.

“Aaron—
no!”
she screamed, and he turned to her in bewildered surprise. “Let him go! He’s just a kid!”

“He’s also just out the goddamn door,” Aaron exclaimed, as Ethan darted out the front entrance, his boot soles pounding heavily on the wooden stair risers outside.

“You can’t shoot him. What the hell’s wrong with you?” she yelled.

“Nothing—except I just took out Grandma and Nurse Ratched over there,” he snapped back. “I can’t draw enough power to stun him. I’ve depleted my telepathy. And now he’s halfway across the compound, probably
yelling his damn fool head off the whole way. Your whole goddamn clan’s about to be up our asses—locked and loaded.”

“You can’t shoot him,” Naima said again, brows furrowed. Spinning around, she marched back into the office. “Come on. We have to get out of here.”

They both went to the opened window they’d used to climb inside. Naima jumped first, springing down, cat-like, from the sill. She landed lithely on her feet in the grass. Aaron landed hard behind her, grunting sharply as he dropped to his knees from the force of the impact.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

He nodded. “I’m good. Let’s go.”

She tossed him the keys. “You’re driving. I’ll try to shield us telepathically, buy us time until we
get to Mason.”

As they climbed into the cab of the Escalade, he shot her a glance. “I wouldn’t have
killed him.”

“You had your gun pointing right at him.”

“I said I wouldn’t have
killed
him. I would have shot him in the knee to stop him from running away.”

“He’s fifteen years old, Aaron. He’s a kid, for God’s sake.”

“Well, what the hell’s he doing out here in the first place? You guys think this is some kind of family reunion? There’s someone trying to
kill
your clan leaders.”

“Shut up and drive,” she snapped, buckling her seat belt.

“I wouldn’t have killed him,” he snapped back, gunning the engine.

***

The Escalade bumped and jostled along the winding, rutted road, and Naima had a hell of a time concentrating to keep both the brakes operational, and the psionic shields she hoped would protect them from her family’s telepathic notice. On more than one occasion, she dropped the latter completely because the truck would veer too close to the shoulder and she’d have to brake unexpectedly. On at least the fourth such occasion—after the truck nearly bounced off the road all together and into the pine trees—she frowned and brought the Escalade to an abrupt, skidding halt.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” she exclaimed, turning to Aaron.
“Are you even watching the road or are you just trying to get us killed?”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, shaking his head. For the first time, she noticed he was sitting in an awkward, peculiar position, slumped somewhat toward the door. The front of his jacket, right above his left breast, looked inexplicably wet, the black cotton of his hoodie glistening and damp.

“Aaron?” she said, and he glanced at her. There was blood on his bottom lip, smeared on his chin. Last night, the sight and scent of this had turned her on; in that moment, however, it terrified her. “Aaron, oh, my God, what’s wrong? You’re bleeding.”

Struggling with her seat belt, she unsnapped it and scrambled over to him, even as he shook his head, his eyelids drooping dazedly.

“It’s nothing,” he murmured. “I…I’m good…”

“
No, you’re not,” Naima said, and when she touched the wet spot on his coat—realizing just how broad a swath it actually was—she felt a charred hole in the center of it. “You’ve been shot!” Stricken, she stared at him. “Kate
hit
you? Why the hell didn’t you say something?”

“I’m alright,” he told her, but he started to cough, a moist, hacking sound that sent blood peppering from his lips.

“Keep still,” Naima ordered, and she shrugged her way out of the white button-down blouse she wore over her tank top. Wadding it between her hands, she pressed it over the wound on his chest. “Hold this,” she told him, taking him by the hand and clapping it down against the shirt. “Push down hard.”

“Where are you going?” he asked, as she opened the passenger’s door and hurried around.

“Mason’s house is just around the bend. I can make it on foot from here,” she said, opening the driver’s side door and leaning into the cab. She reached past his hip for the gear shift and popped the Escalade into neutral. “Can you shield yourself telepathically?” she asked him as the big truck started inching forward, the front wheels bouncing gently over the shoulder of the road.

He nodded, closing his eyes. “I think so.”

“Good. You stay in the truck. I’m going to pull it off over here so no one sees it from the road. Then I’m going to go check on Mason, make sure he’s okay.”

She tried to keep the truck from slamming grill-first into a tree as it began to pick up some speed, rolling down the sloping hillside, crunching fallen branches and snapping twigs under its broad wheels. Once she felt they were safely out of view from the road, she used her telekinesis to deploy the brakes, bringing them to a sliding, reluctant halt in the damp leaves and pine needles.

“You can’t go by yourself,” Aaron said, gritting his teeth and trying to sit up more. “If Julien’s there…”

“If Julien’s there, you’re no match for him anyway with a bullet hole in your chest.”

“It’s a scratch,” Aaron muttered, hiccupping up blood. “Barely…grazed me…”

She kissed him to shut him up. As she drew away after a long, lingering moment, he caught her face against his hand, his blue eyes round and urgent. “Take my gun,” he said.

“No,” Naima said.

“If he’s there…you’ll need it,” Aaron pleaded. “He can’t stop a bullet, Naima.”

She leaned forward, kissing him again. “He can’t stop me, either,” she whispered. “Trust me on that.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I can’t believe I’ve been shot by a human,
Aaron thought, leaning his head back against the driver’s seat and closing his eyes, his consciousness an ebbing and flowing tide within his skull. He’d known from the moment the human woman had fired that she had him pretty much dead to rights. It was a blessing she hadn’t been a better shot, he supposed, but as it was, she’d gotten him pretty damn good. It could have been worse—a millimeter or two lower, and she would have punched through his subclavian artery, in which case he would have already bled out—Brethren healing or not. But he’d still lost a lot of blood. And he suspected the round had either ricocheted off his collar bone or fragmented inside of him, clipping his lung, because he kept coughing up blood in ever-increasing quantities.