Free Out of the Dark (The Brethren Series) by Sara Reinke Page B

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