Out of the Dark (The Brethren Series) (30 page)

From her vantage in the kitchen, when she turned back to face the living room, she found something else that had escaped her earlier notice: one of the sliding glass doors leading out onto the rear deck of the house had been left partially open. She leaned her head out onto the patio, feeling the cool press of breeze against her face, but saw nothing. The deck was empty. A steep flight of steps on her left led down to the ground level, but there was nothing there but forest.

Had Julien Davenant used this as his point of entry into the house? Had Mason used it to escape somehow? Neither explanation accounted for the fact the front door had been likewise left standing ajar.

“I think I’ve found something that belongs to you,
mon bijou,”
Mason said from behind her.

At his voice, she
spun to face the living room again, uttering a small cry of both surprise and abject relief. The sound cut short, however, when she saw him in the corridor leading from the front foyer to the living room. He dragged Aaron in tow, with one of Aaron’s arms draped across his shoulders, and his own arm hooked around Aaron’s waist, supporting most of his weight from the looks of things. Aaron’s face was ashen, and there was blood smeared on his chin and cheek.

“Aaron…!”
she gasped.

Mason’s brows were furrowed, his mouth turned in a disagreeable line. With a snort of disgust, he ducked his head from beneath Aaron’s arm, then gave Aaron a shove, sending him staggering forward. Aaron’s eyes rolled back and he crumpled, his knees failing him.

“He was in the cemetery,” Mason said. Naima could smell the liquor on him even from across the room. All at once, the scenario she’d pictured to explain the mess in his house changed.

He did this himself,
she realized.
He wasn’t attacked—he’s drunk. He was probably staggering around, blundering into things, digging through his kitchen for more alcohol.

But even so, there was a granite-like severity in Mason’s face,
the shadow of a sober but murderous fury that only the most diligent of self-control could keep tamped down and tamed. “I found him by Lisette’s grave…like the poor bastard fancied he had the right to be there.”

“He’s her brother,” Naima said quietly, because she’d never seen this side to Mason before, this barely contained rage that simmered in his eyes. But she recognized it nonetheless—from personal experience.

He’s ready to break,
she thought.
From stress, from grief, from the alcohol—it’s all overwhelming him. Just like with me, when I fall into a fugue.

“He lost that right!” Mason snapped at her. “They all did—the whole goddamn Davenant clan!”

He reached for the small of his back and pulled a pistol out from the waistband of his pants. Grabbing Aaron by the crown of his hair, he jerked the younger man’s head back, mashing the muzzle of the 9-millimeter against the top of his skull.

“They lost any right to claim
Lisette as their own!” he shouted hoarsely, his expression anguished. “Not a goddamn one of them knows anything about kinship, friendship…or love!”

“Mason,” she pressed. “Listen to me.”

She could have used her telekinesis to take the gun away from him, but didn’t. She was afraid if she tried, he’d panic; that he’d see it as an attack and that this would push him fully over the edge of a psychotic break. Mason had telepathy of his own; he could wield it against her or Aaron with no more than a thought, and Aaron was in no shape to defend himself.

“
He knows about love.” Her eyes cut to Aaron, and he met her gaze, the tendons in his neck taut and straining as Mason wrenched his head back all the more. “Because he loves me. And I love him.”

“Are you
crazy?”
Mason exclaimed, eyes flown wide.

“
That’s why he’s here,” Naima insisted. “He’d left the compound—he could be a thousand miles from here by now, but he came back instead—because of me. Because I asked him to help me protect you.”

“
What are you talking about?” Mason shook his head. “The only one we need protection from is
him.”

“He didn’t kill Michel.”

Michel stared at her, disbelieving. “Of course he did. Who else would have?
Could
have?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Phillip said as he came striding briskly down the corridor from the foyer. The front door was open wide behind him, and Naima caught a glimpse of the four-wheeled ATV bike he’s ridden to the house parked at a crazy angle in the drive outside. When Mason glanced over his shoulder at his brother’s approach—and Phillip realized he had a gun shoved against Aaron’s scalp—he raised his brows, visibly impressed. “I guess congratulations are in order, Mason. Wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.”

“Phillip, listen to me…” Naima began.

“I think you’ve said more than enough, Naima,” he cut in with a glare. “Judging from what I just heard, in any case.” To Mason, he added, “I’ve got a dozen more at least right behind me. They’ll be here any minute. Ethan found us at the gate post.” With a pointed
glance at Naima, he added, “He said Davenant had just killed his grandmother and Karen Pierce.”

“They’re not dead. They’re just stunned,” Naima said hotly.

“Really? And how would you know that?” Phillip challenged. “Oh, that’s right—Ethan said you were with him. You’ve been helping the son of a bitch all along, haven’t you?”

Mason blinked at her, wounded and stunned, and she shook her head.

“No. No, that’s not true. Mason, listen to me. You know that’s not—”

“Did you help him get onto the compound the night he tried to cut Tristan’s throat?” Phillip snapped.

“No!” Eyes flown wide, she shook her head. “What the hell are you—?”

“Convenient that you’re the one who discovered him there,” Phillip continued. “The one who supposedly stopped his attack…especially to hear you claim now, only a day later, that the two of you are in love.” He sneered at this, his mouth twisting as if he’d tasted something bitter. “Was it all just a ruse, Naima?”

“No,” she snapped back, fists bared. She could feel her gums tingling, her fangs wanted to drop in her sudden, bright outrage. “You son of a bitch, that’s
not
how it—”

“Has this all been just a set up so he could get to Michel more easily?” Phillip demanded.

“Aaron didn’t kill Michel!” Naima shouted. “I know, because he was with me when it happened. He was in
my house
when Michel was killed!”

“If he didn’t do it, then who did?” Mason asked. Although he kept the gun pressed to the top of Aaron’s head, some of the ferocity had drained from his face.
Meeting her gaze, locking eyes with her, he asked in her mind:
Who did you think he could protect me from?

Julien,
she said, the name sending a visible shock of recognition through Mason.

From outside, drifting in through the front door, came the sounds of approaching engines, high-pitched and whining.

“Looks like we’re about to have company,” Phillip said.

Aaron had been quiet for most of the exchange, trying to concentrate on keeping calm, on trying to keep his breathing slow and shallow, so that he didn’t hemorrhage further and bleed to death. But when Phillip ratcheted a round into the rifle he carried, Aaron opened his eyes. Straining against Mason’s fist-hold in his hair, he craned his neck to look over at Phillip.

“Nice…gun,” he murmured. “What is that? A…a 98-Bravo…?”

To Naima, he shot a single, imperative thought:
It’s
him
.

She didn’t understand, however, until Phillip hoisted to rifle to his shoulder and swung the length of the barrel toward Mason, standing within point-blank range.

“Mason!”
Naima screamed. As Phillip’s finger folded inward on the trigger, Aaron reached up, clasping the wrist of Mason’s gun arm between his hands. Gritting his teeth, he twisted sharply, and gave a furious yank, both diverting the aim of the pistol away from his head, and making Mason pitch sideways in a stumbling, clumsy fall. The sharp clap of gunfire from the Bravo was overlapped by that of the 9-millimeter pistol as, still grasping Mason by the arm, his fingers laced over Mason’s around the gun stock and trigger, Aaron returned fire.

The rifle shot went wide as Mason fell, but Aaron’s shot hit home--
the center of Phillip’s forehead. The rifle fell from his hands as he crashed backwards, gracelessly to the floor, a thin trail of blood hovering momentarily in the air to mark his wake.

Naima had instinctively crouched at the gunshots. “Aaron!” she cried, scrambling to her feet. “Mason!”

Heavy footsteps suddenly shuddered through the floorboards as the proverbial cavalry arrived. Elliott burst into the living room, rifle in hands, his cheeks flushed, his eyes wild. At least a dozen other Morin men rushed in behind him. Elliott had about a half-second to take in the scene—Phillip lying dead, sprawled on the floor, and Mason nearby, with Aaron beside him, still holding the gun.

“No!”
Naima screamed as, brows furrowed, Elliott raised his rifle, taking aim for Aaron’s face. She threw herself in front of Aaron, crashing onto her knees, her arms spread wide. “No, don’t shoot him! Elliott,
don’t shoot!”

Elliott stared at her like she’d gone nuts. “Naima, what the hell are you doing?” he cried.

“If I’m not mistaken…” Mason murmured, pushing himself into a seated position. “She’s trying to protect the man she loves.” With a glance at Aaron, he added, “Not to mention the one who just saved my life.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Come with me.

Aaron remembered Naima whispering this to him, pleading, as he’d unlocked the gate to the underground Indian tunnels in 1815. His hands had been shaking; it had been hard to get the key into the ancient, rusted lock, but somehow he’d managed. He remembered the screech of the hinges as he’d pulled the heavy gate open. Beyond the threshold, for the first twenty yards or so, the tunnels had been paved with creek stones. After than, just beyond the circumference of light cast by a small oil lamp he’d brought with him, there was nothing but blackness, utter and absolute.

He helped her button up the front of her dress, but despite this, she was still shivering. He shrugged off his jacket—something fancy and velveteen because it was his mother’s birthday, her party was still underway upstairs—and gave it to her, tugging the lapels close against the sweet swell of her bosom to keep her warm.

They raped her.
He remembered this now; he’d gone downstairs and found Allistair, Vidal and Jean Luc, all drunk, savagely taking turns with Naima. He’d tried to stop them, but in the end, they’d overpowered him. He hurt all over from the abuse they’d heaped on him, his lower back and belly aching in sharp, shuddering spasms that nearly stripped the breath from him.

None of that mattered. All that mattered was Naima, getting her out of the house, keeping her safe. He’d never had another chance like this
before; he knew he’d likely never have another again. Lamar was gone. Aaron didn’t know where, and he didn’t know how long he’d be gone, but the important thing was his absence.

“Come with me,” Naima pleaded again, her beautiful brown eyes swimming with tears. “I can’t,” he said.

“But I’ll never see you again,” she whimpered, and her tears began to fall, gleaming droplets rolling slowly down each of her cheeks.

“Yes, you will.” Cradling her face in his hands, he kissed her. “I promise, Naima. No matter what, I will find you again. We’
ll be together.”

For some reason, he thought of her grandfather, of Michel Morin’s voice, soft words echoing through his mind:
I expect you’re the sort of man who doesn’t give his word lightly, and when he does, it’s binding then, no?

“I promise,” he whispered to her again.

“He'll kill you," she said, weeping openly now. He didn’t even have to ask; he knew she meant his father. "Please, Aaron. If he finds out what you've done, he'll..."

Her voice cut short as he touched her face again, gently wiping her tears. "Hush now," he breathed. “Everything’s going to be alright. I promise.”

She threw her arms around his neck, leaping against him, crushing her lips against his. He could taste the salty sweetness of her tears, feel the warmth of her body against him through the cotton of her dress. He held her fiercely, clutching at her, gasping against his own unbidden tears. Because even though he’d promised her otherwise, he knew the truth.

I’ll never see her again.

And the pain of that realization—the sheer magnitude of that devastating loss—was almost too much for him to bear.

“I love you, Aaron,” she said.

“I love you, too,” he told her, letting his lips steal against hers one last, lingering time. Then he drew back, ashamed of the tears that burned his eyes, strangled his voice. “Hurry,” he whispered. “There…there isn’t much time.”

He’d watched her hurry past the threshold into the tunnels, but once inside, she went no further. She turned and watched him close the gate, clutching a small bundle of foodhe’d given her against her belly, and carrying the lamp by its handle in her other hand. Her entire body had shuddered from the force of sobs she struggled to control, and her breath hitched and hiccupped piteously.