Out of the Dark (The Brethren Series) (9 page)
Read Out of the Dark (The Brethren Series) Online
Authors: Sara Reinke
He remembered despite the obvious gaiety of the circumstances that he’d been anxious, though about what, he could not recall. Something had been troubling him, enough so that he stood tensely by himself, cutting his gaze this way and that, as if he had been searching desperately for something or someone.
“Oh, Aaron,” he heard his mother exclaim, then Annette waded through the crowd into view. She sounded breathless from dancing, and in her cheeks, he saw a high, glossy glow, one born of too much brandy and merriment. “Here’s one of you at least! Your father and brothers have all seemed to vanish into the woodwork! I know he hates parties, but really, it’s my birthday!”
She pressed something into his hands, and he looked down to find
a silver necklace there—the same Saint Christopher’s medal and chain that had been mysteriously delivered to his apartment.
“My necklace is broken,” his mother lamented. “The clasp won’t work, and I’m afraid to lose it. It was my mother’s, you know—your grandmother, bless her. Be a dear and put it in your fob, won’t you?”
“Of course, Mother,” he said, slipping the necklace into a small pocket on the front hip of his breeches.
She smiled brightly, cradling his face between her hands. “You’re a darling love!” she declared, planting a kiss squarely on his lips that tasted stoutly of liquor. She looked nearly tearful as she regarded him a long, almost wistful moment. “What a handsome man you are becoming, Aaron,” she remarked. Shifting her grasp from his cheeks to his hands, she tugged at him. “Dance with your mum. Come on now. It’s been far too long.”
***
He woke with a start, expecting to find himself back in his flat in New York, sitting on his sofa, staring at that enigmatic but hauntingly familiar necklace. There was more to it than the simple memory of his mother asking him to hold it; he knew that. Even while groggy, he could sense this—could feel more memories associated with it tickling at his mind, submerged just beyond his grasp of recall within the murky depths of his past.
However, he did not find himself at home. His surprise and disorientation were short-lived and fleeting, though, as the events since that day came rushing back to him with conscious awareness.
His mission.
Make him answer for it. Tear open his throat, leave the mark of our vengeance in blood on the floor around him. Take your blade and carve out his heart—I want to hold it in my hand, crush it with whatever strength I have yet to call my own.
In that instant, Aaron went from sleepily dazed to bright, alert and alarmed. His entire body tensed, and his brows narrowed, his eyes sweeping the unfamiliar bedroom in which he found himself. Open and spacious, with skylights and windows to allow in a spill of muted sunlight, it was sparsely decorated with prairie-style furnishings and simple black-and-white photographs framed on the walls. The bed was large but otherwise empty save for him, draped in white bedding with black trim. The entire room lay heavily with the fragrance of woman—
and not just any woman.
Naima.
From somewhere below him, through the floorboards, he heard her voice. Because he heard no one answering, and she seemed to pause intermittently between muffled phrases he couldn’t quite discern, he gathered she was on the telephone. Pushing aside the heavy down-filled comforter that had covered him, he swung his legs around, letting his feet settle silently against the cool, smooth wooden floor.
As Aaron stood, he crutched his side with the palm of his hand, feeling a spasm of pain
.
Feels like a few broken ribs in there,
he thought , and he closed his eyes, swaying unsteadily on his feet, waiting for the sudden swell of molten agony to subside.
Maybe more than a few.
She’d taken his gun; he had no weapon now, but it didn’t matter. His psionic strength
had returned; not much, but enough so that he could summon at least one of his telepathic blades and at least get her out of his way, if not outright kill her.
Although he wasn’t so sure he
wanted
to kill her.
Padding softly, he limped toward the top of a staircase, a spiral set of metal steps leading down from what he realized was a loft-styled bedroom. As he approached, he could see the walls here were only waist-high, awarding a broad view of the main floor below. The house was A-framed, the far wall
comprised of towering windows, with interior walls and exposed ceiling timbers of rustic, fragrant cedar. A broad creek-stone chimney graced the far left wall, and he could smell wood smoke, could hear the soft crackle of flames.
“I know.”
He heard Naima’s voice from immediately beneath him, as if she stood at the foot of the stairs. There was something so familiar in the sound, something that caused such a confusing and uncontrollable swell of emotion inside of him, he couldn’t move.
“I know,” she said again, and her voice had moved. If Aaron cocked his head and ducked a bit, he could see her through the spaces between the metal risers as she walked past the stairs and into the living room. She was no longer wearing the sheer gold dress she’d had on earlier, having changed into a pair of black leggings and a grey T-shirt. Sure enough, she cradled a cell phone against her ear. In her free hand, she carried a coffee mug; he closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, discerning a hint of fragrance: chamomile tea.
This is her home,
he realized.
I must have blacked out in the woods and she brought me here.
Bewildered and suspicious, he frowned.
Why in the hell would she do that?
“I’ll see,” Naima murmured, and he raised his head, looking over the half-wall, watching as she crossed the living room. Balancing the phone between her shoulder and ear, she pulled a sliding door open and stepped out onto an exterior deck.
Through the glass, he watched her stand with her back to him, leaning over the railing, crossing her legs at the ankles in a comfortable posture as her breath plumed in a light haze from her mouth.
Seizing his chance, Aaron started down the stairs, his feet falling lightly, rapidly on the risers.
Once he reached the bottom, he again cut his gaze in a wide circumference, trying to get his bearings. To his right, the open living room. To his left, a small kitchen separated only by a breakfast bar, and a door left enough ajar to reveal a bathroom beyond. Straight ahead was another door—this one leading outside.
With a wary glance to make sure Naima remained on the deck, her back in his direction, Aaron slipped into the kitchen. A butcher block rested on the counter beside the sink; from this, he drew a slim
, six-inch boning knife. It didn’t have much by way of heft to it, he considered as he curled his fingers around the hilt, but it was better than nothing.
With the knife in hand, he turned, creeping back to the front door. Just as he reached for the knob, however, Naima’s voice drew him short.
“I wouldn’t do that.”
He spun, reflexively shifting his grip on the knife so that he held it in a fight-ready position. Abruptly, it whipped out of his grasp, snatched by Naima’s telekinesis and sent sailing across the room, clattering as it hit the stone hearth.
“I wouldn’t do that, either,” she told him from the doorway to her deck.
Aaron’s brows narrowed as he locked eyes with her. That was the key to honing his telepathic blade—focusing on his target—but she must have figured this out, realized what he was doing, because she added loudly, “Or that, either.
You scramble my head, you knock out my telepathy. And right now that’s the only thing protecting you.”
“
I don’t need your protection,” he assured her drily.
“You
don’t think so?” With a smirk and a nod toward the nearest window, she added, “The woods are crawling with Morins. We’ve rallied the troops—cousins, brothers, nieces, nephews—all combing the forest as we speak. The only reason they can’t sense you is me. I’m shielding you from their telepathy.”
He didn’t avert his gaze
. “You’re bluffing.”
At that moment, as if on cue, a loud knock fell against the front door. Aaron whirled, eyes wide, and nearly fell onto his
ass as he stumbled back. There was a window in the door, covered by a light canvas shade through which he could clearly make out a silhouetted outline—someone standing outside on Naima’s stoop.
“Naima?
” a man called, his voice muffled through the door. “It’s Elliott. You in there?”
Aaron glanced at Naima in wide-eyed alarm, and she folded her arms across her chest, her brow arched
. “Bluffing, huh?” she said with a smirk. “Go ahead, then. Open the door. Introduce yourself.”
Another knock, louder, sharper and more insistent this time, and Naima
said loudly, “Hang on a minute.” Then, to Aaron, “You might want to duck back upstairs.”
He glared at her
but in the end, didn’t argue. Splinting his aching ribs with his hand again, he limped toward the stairs. At the top, back in the bedroom loft once more, he dropped to his knees, struggling to catch his breath. Going up had been harder on him than going down, and he realized—to his rue—that if Naima
did
intend to hand him off to her visitors, he’d have precious little, if any, by means of strength or stamina to prevent her. Between getting hit by Michel’s truck, and then having Mason beat him, Aaron realized it could take weeks to heal, and probably more—and a day or two at least before he’d be anywhere near well enough to do much more than limp around for short distances.
And I don’t have time for that.
He heard Naima unlatch the door from the main floor, and a sudden flurry of overlapping voices as her guests entered. Pressing himself to the floor, he craned his head, trying to see through the slats of the risers. When he caught sight of two men and a woman—the former pair Brethren, the latter a human, judging by both the scents and sensations of them—in the living room below, all carrying rifles, his breath came to an alarmed standstill. He could feel his heart racing in sudden, mounting anxiety, and he hooked his fingers into the glossy polished grain of the floor board beneath him.
He didn’t have a gun. He no longer had a knife. And despite his earlier confidence, he realized now that his telepathy still wouldn’t be worth a shit in a fight—not against one Brethren alone, never mind Naima and the
trio downstairs.
Which meant he had no choice but to trust Naima.
And that was the
last
fucking thing he wanted to do.
***
“Elliott,” Naima exclaimed with a smile that she hoped would allay any suspicions her delay had roused. “Hey, you!”
“Hey, yourself,”
Elliott Morin replied, spreading his arms wide as she stepped forward to embrace him. He was dressed in a heavy down-filled parka, with a wool sock cap pulled low over his brow. A few straggling curls, dark auburn like Michel’s, had worked their way loose from beneath the hat at his brow line and above his ears. “It’s good to see you!”
“You, too,” she said, breathless as he gave her a tight, fervent embrace.
The youngest son of Michel’s youngest brother Emile, Elliott had been one of Naima’s favorite playmates in childhood. With a headful of red hair and bright blue eyes that had always seemed to glint with an impish delight, he’d been a charismatic orchestrator of all manner of mischievous adventures on the Morin family farm. When she’d been reunited with her kin, the playful boy had grown, as had she, morphing into the tall, strong-jawed man who stood, virtually unchanged, on her doorstep now.
Over his shoulder, just past the stoop, she saw a human woman
approaching the house with a young man in his late teens bringing up the rear. “Hi, Kate,” Naima said to the woman. “It’s been too long. Who’s this with you?”
“
You remember our grandson, Ethan?” Kate asked, stepping past Elliott for her turn at a hug.
“
Ethan? Wow!” Naima said. The boy trailed behind his mother, looking sheepish and somewhat shy. “You’ve
grown
since the last time I saw you! How old are you now?”
“Fifteen,” Ethan said, speaking apparently to the toes of his hiking boots.
“He’s a sophomore in high school,” Kate said proudly. “And already taller than Elliott.”
Kate was sixty-three years old. She’d met and married Elliott when she’d been in her twenties.
They had four children together, now all grown, as well as nine grandchildren including Ethan. She was the third human wife Naima had known Elliott to take in his lifetime and, she suspected, Kate would be the third he would one day, and to his heartache, bury.
“He’s too damn tall,” Elliott said, with feigned grouchiness. “I don’t know what the hell they’re
feeding those kids out there in Illinois.”
“Iowa, Grandpa,” Ethan corrected, as this was apparently where he was from.
“Wherever.” Elliott hooked an arm around his neck, playfully tousling his hair, and visibly embarrassing the boy. Then, with a glance at Naima, he said, “So what’s a guy have to do to get invited in out of the cold around here?”
“
Oh,” Naima said, managing a clumsy laugh as she stepped out of the doorway. “Of course. Come on in.”