Brandon wrote again, trying to get all of his questions in some semblance of logical order. When Rene tapped his fingertip against the notebook, Brandon blinked up at him, startled. "Why don't you wait for me in the living room, pet.i.t?" he said. "See what that sister of yours might like byway of breakfast. I need to take this."

Brandon nodded, rising to his feet. He felt vaguely light-headed at the motion, and stumbled, catching himself against Rene's bedpost. "Go get one of those Percodans in the kitchen," Rene told him, cupping his hand against the handset's mouthpiece. "It's time again for one, or close enough, I think. Don't let yourself get to misery again, pet.i.t. Trust me."

Brandon nodded again, but didn't immediately go for the kitchen or the proffered medicine as he left Rene's bedside. He returned instead to his own bed behind the white silk drapes. "Will he take us?" Tessa asked. She'd been sitting against the side of the bed, but stood now, her eyes wide and anxious.

Brandon shook his head. We're not leaving yet, he signed.

Chapter Nineteen.

"Rene, are you drunk?" Lina asked with a frown. She glanced at her bedside clock. Christ, and it's not even eight thirty in the morning yet.

"No, I'm not," he replied with a laugh. "You keep asking me that, chere, and getting p.i.s.sed at me besides. You hurt my feelings.

And here I was just thinking all fondly of you a minute ago."

"I need to borrow one of your cars," she said. She'd already been up for hours, and had gone for a run. She'd needed to clear her head when she'd awoke that morning. She'd fallen asleep at her computer last night and had the strangest, most wonderful dream in which Brandon was there. He'd come to her apartment somehow, and had made love to her. When she'd come to, she had still been seated at her desk-not pressed against the wall, her legs twined around his midriff, as she'd been in her dream- but her body had still felt warm and flushed, her nipples and groin acutely sensitive, as if she really had just achieved the wrenching o.r.g.a.s.m she'd imagined.

She'd covered her face with her hands and struggled vainly not to cry. G.o.dd.a.m.n it, I miss you, Brandon, she'd thought, frustrated, lonely and frightened. Where are you? Please, G.o.d, please be alright.

"Of course, chere," Rene said. "Come and take your pick. If you hurry, you can have breakfast with us. I've met some-"

"No, thanks," she said, frowning. The last thing she wanted to do was meet Rene's latest f.u.c.k-of-the-month. And apparently, from what she'd overheard as he'd addressed this anonymous girl, she had a sister, too. Terrific.

"Look, I'll be there in a couple of hours, how about that?" she said. "I've got some things to do first, then I'll be over."

"Sounds good, chere," he said. "I'll see you then."

She planned on recanvasing the neighborhood over by the motel again that day. It was close enough to Rene's building that she could take care of that while he and his bimbos had breakfast, and then she could swing by when she'd finished to pick up a car.

She wanted to hit the airport and bus station again, but the cab fare was beginning to take a real bite out of her wallet She hated asking Rene for a loaner-because he had nothing in his garage that cost him less than $100,000 to buy, and that left her sick to her stomach just to consider-but she had no choice. She knew he wouldn't refuse her, and-best yet-he wouldn't ask her too many questions. He knew her well enough to just turn her loose sometimes with whatever she needed from him, and she loved him for that.

After she hung up with Rene, she left her bedroom and returned to her computer. She'd watched the news earlier that morning, and seen a segment on a pair of bodies discovered yesterday along the waterfront-two transients, both of them with their throats mauled, both drained almost entirely of blood. Lina had flinched as if someone had slapped her when she heard this; she'd stared at the TV screen, her eyes enormous, her breath stilled.

"Preliminary autopsy investigations indicate that yes, the wounds to the victims' throats occurred prior to their deaths," said a Metro Police spokesman in a snippet taken from a press conference the day before. A flurry of noisy questions greeted this comment, reporters demanding in overlapping voices whether a vampire cult or devil worshipping were being considered.

Vampire cult, Lina thought, remembering Caine and Emily n.o.ble's teeth, the long, wicked hooks of their canine fangs. Maybe I wasn't imagining things after all.

"At this time, we're investigating every possible scenario," the police spokesman said on TV. "We're asking for the public's help in identifying leads in this investigation."

Lina Google searched for vampire in the metropolitan area. She'd found nothing in her searches the night before for any new information on Wellbutrin, instead turning up only page after page of what she already knew. The drug was prescribed to treat mild-to-moderate depression. In lower doses, it was also used as an effective smoking cessation treatment. Side effects included irritability, increased anxiety, weight loss, dizziness, and impotence. None of which particularly applied to Brandon-especially the latter-and none of which gave her any hint as to why he might be taking the medication.

Now she wondered if Brandon took it for depression, after all, and if Jackson's original suspicions about the n.o.bles and their neighboring families wasn't more on the mark than she'd first believed. I think they're part of some kind of cult, he'd told her.

A vampire cult, maybe? Lina thought, again thinking of Brandon's brother and sister, and those horrifying teeth.

Her search turned up all kinds of hits, and one item in particular kept appearing again and again-the Catacombs at Apathy.

Apathy was a relatively new nightclub, but rapidly becoming one of the city's most popular, particularly for fans of alternative lifestyles. It was built on the waterfront, floating against the sh.o.r.eline atop three old coal barges. It included a network of interconnected dance clubs and bars, each designed with a particular fetish or theme in mind. The Catacombs, located appropriately below deck on one of the barges, apparently catered to vampire aficionados.

Jesus, Lina thought, reading through post after post on message boards, and skimming through at least a dozen articles on the place. She'd expected to find maybe a few people in the city at most with any kind of publicly proclaimed interest in vampirism, but apparently, there was a whole freak-show underworld she'd been otherwise unaware of-hundreds of people, teens and young adults mostly, who not only believed in vampires, but fancied themselves to be vampires.

She studied images of kids with dental bridges they could remove or insert at will, with elongated, vampire fangs affixed. Others were even more drastic, having their canine teeth filed down to pointed nubs or topped with fang-like crowns. She read about vampire parties and blood bars, where people would bite and cut one another open, drinking blood. Like a G.o.dd.a.m.n Tupperware party from h.e.l.l, she thought, shaking her head. This has got to be what I saw at Jackie's apartment.

Brandon's brother and sister-they're into this s.h.i.t, and they were wearing prosthetic teeth.

And since those were precisely the kinds of people who frequented the Catacombs at Apathy, Lina figured it would be as good as place to look next as any. I may not find Brandon there, but I have a feeling I might run into Caine-or at least someone who knows him, someone he's holing up with, she thought. He's got to be laying low somewhere. I shot him twice, and I've called every hospital in the city, with no sign of him. He's my last chance to find Brandon before anyone else in his family can-so what better place to look for a freak than a freak show?

Chapter Twenty.

"He's lying," Tessa said with a frown, folding her arms across her bosom and sparing a dark glance toward Rene. "He can't possibly feed without killing someone. It's impossible. He's lying."

She and Brandon sat across from one another at a small dinette table in Rene's kitchen area. Rene stood nearby at the stove, stirring at a skillet of eggs with a wooden spatula. He turned at this, his brows arched in challenge.

Oh, G.o.d, Brandon thought. Here we go again.

"Your confidence in me is flattering, pischouette," Rene said to Tessa. "Almost as G.o.dd.a.m.n endearing as your mouth."

"Stop calling me that," Tessa said, her frown deepening. "What is that, anyway? What does it mean?" The icy malice in her eyes clearly imparted: And it better not be anything bad.

"It's French," Rene replied. "It means little girl. I think it's fairly apt in this case."

"That's not French," Tessa said. "I speak French, merci beaucoup, and I've never heard that word before."

"It's Cajun French, not your high-falootin' sort, pischouette," Rene said. "Straight out of Bayou Lafourche."

Enough already! Brandon thought, flapping his hands at them. Jesus, will you both stop?

"It doesn't matter anyway," Tessa said, turning back toward her brother. "Brandon, he's lying. You can't just turn the bloodl.u.s.t on and off like a light switch. I know you've felt it, even if you haven't succ.u.mbed to it yet. You know I'm right. It doesn't work that way."

"I've been alive longer than the both of you put together," Rene said, sc.r.a.ping the eggs from the pan, dividing them among three plates on a nearby countertop. He glanced over his shoulder, glowering at Tessa. "I been called a lot of things in that time, but a liar isn't often one of them. You told me yourself, Brandon-you've seen me feed. I'd be glad to call Anise and have her come over for a visit, let you see she's alive and well."

"Stop putting these ideas in his head!" Tessa snapped. "That's not how we've been taught! Our people have survived for millennia by doing things certain ways-specific ways, and that's a lot longer than you've been around!"

"So is your way of things to lie to your brother, too?" Rene asked. "Suppress his telepathy and feed his head full of bulls.h.i.t about being weak and unworthy?"

"Suppress his telepathy?" Tessa said.

Brandon wrote quickly, ripping the note loose and flapping it in the air. Rene, you don't know that they were doing anything like that.

"What do you mean, supressing it?" Tessa asked, s.n.a.t.c.hing the note first. "What the h.e.l.l is he talking about, Brandon?"

Brandon shook his head. It's nothing, he signed. Something happened earlier, before we found you. He thinks I did it somehow, but I didn't.

"What?" Tessa asked.

Rene poked at another skillet where he had sliced sausages sauteing. "The way I see it, it seems like a d.a.m.n funny thing that Brandon didn't seem to have any telepathy to speak of the whole time he was in Kentucky with your family, pischouette. A d.a.m.n funnier thing is that the minute he's away, he's suddenly got it in spades. Stronger than you or me-or the lot of your Brethren, too, I'd bet." He glanced at her pointedly as he transferred the sausage from pan to plates. "Sounds to me like someone knew it, too, and either wasn't too happy about it, or was scared of him. They tried to block up his mind."

"They did not," Tessa said. "You're full of s.h.i.t, do you know that? n.o.body blocked Brandon's telepathy. He was hurt when he was a little boy-he lost his hearing because of it, and he can't talk now, either. That's when it happened, when his telepathy was damaged."

"All I know is your brother got inside my head, pischouette," Rene said. "He did it without even meaning to, and he punched past any kind of defenses I had to keep him out. It hurt like h.e.l.l, and I don't have any other explanation for it."

"Brandon, you can't believe that," Tessa said. "Not even the Grandfather would do such a thing, try to restrain your telepathy.

Rene doesn't know what he's talking about. He's feeding you all of this c.r.a.p, and he doesn't know about us, or the Brethren, or our lives. Who is he to question anything? We-"

"Seems to me, pischouette, that I'm not the one who's questioning stuff," Rene said. He walked toward the table, two plates in his hands, and dropped one unceremoniously in front of her. "He is."

He nodded toward Brandon, setting the second plate before him. "I don't think Brandon wants to kill anybody-your way of things or not-and that's why he ran away from that little pony farm of yours in Kentucky. I also think your granddaddy was scared of him, of his power and that maybe other folks might start getting ideas in their heads like Brandon's, that killing to feed is wrong. So he stifled Brandon's telepathy, made him-and everyone else-think he was weak. like I said, I can't find any other explanation." He spared her a glance. "But if you do, pischouette, then please feel free to share."

Tessa had been staring at her eggs, a stricken and decidedly ashen look on her face. She rose abruptly to her feet, shoving her chair back from the table so hard, it toppled behind her. She clapped her hand to her mouth and pushed Rene aside, darting from the kitchen and rushing for the bathroom on the far side of the loft.

Rene looked after her for a moment, his brow arched thoughtfully, and then he looked down at Brandon. "I'm going to try real hard and not take that personally, pet.i.t," he said.

She didn't mean it, Brandon wrote. She doesn't understand, that's all.

"Yeah, well, I hate to be the one to put a knot in her panties, but she had it due," Rene said. He'd crossed back to the counter and returned, carrying his own plate of breakfast. He speared a forkful of eggs and popped it in his mouth. "She's a beautiful girl, pet.i.t, but she's got a way about her that could curdle milk."

It's not her fault, Brandon wrote unhappily. She's not always like that. I think it's because she's pregnant.

Rene blinked as Brandon handed him the note. "Quoi?" he asked, visibly startled. "She... she's what? Viens m'enculer."

She's not far along, only a few months, Brandon wrote. You can't tell to look at her.

Rene shoved his fingers through his hair, his brows furrowing. "Christ, I'm an a.s.s." He moved as if he thought to follow Tessa, but stopped short, swung around, and began to pace. "I should say something to her, apologize."It's not your fault, Rene. You didn't know, Brandon began to write, but Rene shook his head.

"My grandmother raised me a gentleman," he said. "And I've been anything but to your Tessa. Mamere's probably turned sideways in her grave."

He turned his head suddenly, his eyes widening.

"There's the doorbell. Hang on, pet.i.t. That's my partner, come to borrow a car. Why don't you see if your sister's OK? Bring her out here so I can tell her I'm sorry."

While Rene went to answer the door buzzer, Brandon retreated to the back of the loft, to the bathroom. Like everything else in Rene's private corner of the world, the bathroom was surrounded by drapes, not walls. Brandon drew aside a panel of heavy fabric and peered beyond, finding his sister kneeling on the floor beside the toilet, her hands over her face, her shoulders trembled as she wept.

Brandon knelt beside her, touching her shoulder gently. It's alright, he signed. Please don't cry, Tessa. Rene's sorry. And maybe he's wrong, anyway. I don't know. It's not- Tessa shook her head. "What if he's not?" she said. "What if he's not wrong at all, Brandon?" Her words dissolved inarticulately as this only prompted her to cry all the more. He leaned toward her, cradling her cheeks between his palms and pressing his forehead against hers.

Please don't cry, he thought.

I'm sorry, Brandon, she said. At the great house, after my bloodletting... it's like you always tried to tell me, but I never believed it. I never saw it. You told me I was different, and I was. I let you down. I left you alone. I knew how it was for you there, with Caine and Emily and the Grandfather, but I... I left you there. Now look at what's happened!

She leaned back, touching his face. "The Grandfather hurt you," she whispered, anguished. "Maybe he did block your telepathy.

G.o.d, it would make sense, wouldn't it? I should have sensed it... should have known. And now you're hurt again. You... you've needed me, Brandon, and I haven't been there to help you. I'm sorry. I... please, I'm sorry."

Brandon pressed his fingertips against her lips and shook his head. He felt the sudden sting of tears in his own eyes. It's not your fault, Tessa, he told her. None of this is.

"Hey, chere," Rene said to Lina, answering the front door to his building himself, instead of simply buzzing her in.

"Hey, Rene," she said, as he stepped aside so she could walk past him. The ground floor of Rene's home had once been a bank, built during a postwar construction boom in the 1940s, and his foyer was the main lobby, a broad expanse of charcoal-colored granite floors, marble pillars and long panels of teller stations flanking either side. Vacant offices kept a stoic vigil as he led her toward the elevators. Through several of these empty doorways, she could see that the bank's enormous safes remained, their doors permanently ajar, their steel bellies empty.

She very seldom got to see Rene's home. As a general rule, he picked her up at her place on those occasions when they did anything socially together. And when she came to his building, she couldn't peep through any of the ground floor windows, because he'd had most of them covered with stainless steel plates. Those that remained had thick, polarized, shatterproof gla.s.s in them, tinted so dark, she'd never been able to make out anything beyond them.

She found herself gawking around like a wide-eyed child at the shadow- and cobweb-draped fixtures, listening to the echo of their overlapping footsteps bouncing back at them from the vaulted ceilings. It's like a tomb in here, she thought, shivering slightly.

He didn't say much as she followed him to the elevators, and as he pulled the bra.s.s gate shut and threw a switch, sending the car upward with a slight lurch and an occasional wobble, she noticed that he seemed distracted, troubled somehow. "Rene?" she asked. "You OK?"

He blinked at her, as if snapping out of distant thoughts. "Quoi? Oh, yes. I'm fine, chere." He smiled for her, thin and forced.

"Why are we going up?" she asked. He kept his cars in the bas.e.m.e.nt garage.

Rene shook his head, sighing heavily. "Because I'm a dumba.s.s," he murmured. Lina had the distinct impression he was talking about something else entirely, but he didn't elaborate and she didn't press. She'd had no luck canvasing the surrounding neighborhood, looking for Brandon, and she needed to get the car and be on her way. She had to report for work that afternoon at four thirty, and her patrol began at five. That didn't leave her much time for lending her friend a sympathetic ear. I'm sorry, Rene, she thought, feeling crummy. I'll make it up to you, I promise.

"Well, while we're here..." Rene said, as the elevator came to a halt. "Why don't you come into the loft a minute? I've got some company and we were just sitting down to a late breakfast."

"Oh, Rene, I... I really can't..." she said, but he was already drawing open the elevator gate. I don't want to meet this girl of yours, Rene, or her sister either.

"Come on," Rene said, stepping off the elevator. "S'il te plait. Please, Lina. It won't take five minutes. Besides, my keys are all up in the kitchen. I forgot to grab a set for you."

She sighed, hunching her shoulders, following him. "Alright, Rene."

Rene's loft reminded her of a television studio or some kind of theatrical set. He lived with everything out in the open, with drapes instead of walls, everything centered around the fireplace in an otherwise unadorned, unbroken expanse of s.p.a.ce. He used strategically placed, warm lighting and the deliberate arrangement of furniture to lend the illusion of intimate perimeters, but to Lina, it still felt stark and lonely; his life on display, and yet hidden from the world at the same time.

There was no apparent sign of Rene's latest bimbo, for which Lina was immensely grateful. Maybe I can get out of here without having to go through that bulls.h.i.t after all, she thought, watching as Rene mounted the steps leading to his kitchen.

"You want some eggs and andouille, chere?" he called as he sifted through a drawer.

"No, thanks," she replied. "Just the keys, please, Rene. I've really got to get going."

"No problem," Rene said. He held up his hand, dangling a pair of keys on a small ring at her. "You want to drive the Jaguar, chere?" He held up a second keying in his other hand. "Or the Lexus?" He glanced beyond her shoulder, and she bit back a groan as his expression softened. Somebody was behind her; she could hear their footsteps, and tried not to grimace.

Terrific, she thought. The f.u.c.k-of-the-month.

"Hey, good timing, pet.i.t," Rene said. "Here's someone I'd like you to meet."