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

that when one or more people were tied to the device, usually by their hands from an eyelet in the lateral beam, he could raise or lower them as he pleased. Historically, this had come to mean that Naima and Aaron would be bound facing each other, with their wrists together over their heads as they  stood flat-footed on the floor. Then, with only a few turns of the crank, Lamar would hoist them aloft, leaving their feet to dangle a foot or more off the ground.
    Lamar’s sadistic abuse had frightened and bewildered Naima when she’d been a child, because it had come seemingly without motive or reason. But as she’d grown older, she’d come to understand that not only was Lamar driven by his relentless hatred of Michel, but also by his own sadistic fascination with Naima herself.
    “Just how much of her Brethren nature holds sway in her form?” he’d often muse. “Where does the human within her stop, and the Brethren begin?”
    Lamar had enjoyed testing this particular hypothesis. Because he’d needed a full-blooded Brethren by which to compare the results of his abusive experiments on Naima—and because he had been the closest among his children in age to Naima—Aaron had often been forced to suffer through the same torments and tortures, all in the same of satisfying his father’s cruel curiosity. For his part, Aaron had realized the longer he endured Lamar’s abuse without crying out in pain, the longer Lamar would focus his sadistic attention on him. He’d all but forget about Naima in his relentless determination to see the boy break.
    For hours while tied to the tree, she’d watch Lamar whip Aaron, time and time again. Lamar would grow more and more furious, the blows more and more brutal, slicing Aaron open deeper and deeper. Stop it, she’d want to scream, to plead, but the words would always wind up trapped in her throat, strangling her. Because if she cried out, then Lamar would have swung that murderous gaze—and the whip—her way.
    All the while, with every blow, Aaron would lock his eyes with hers and hold it fast, as if it was a physical bond somehow, something he clutched at desperately for comfort, for rescue. With every blow, he’d struggle not to let the pain show.
    Not for his father, she thought. For me. He didn’t want me to know how much he was hurting. He always tried to protect me.
    “Are you alright?”
    Aaron had roused, but she’d been distracted by memories and hadn’t even noticed. She’d been staring off into space, trance-like. Startled, she gave a little jerk, and found him grimacing as he sat up on the couch.
    “I…I’m fine,” she whispered, nodding. “How about you? How are you feeling?”
    “Better. Thanks for letting me crash awhile.”
    His shirt hem remained slightly hiked and out of place, but he didn’t notice until her eyes traveled toward it, drawn to the scars on his flank. When he realized her attention, he pulled the shirt down again, as if ashamed that she’d seen the marks.
    “What happened to your back?” she asked softly.
    “Nothing,” he murmured, not meeting her gaze.
    “He did that to you, didn’t he? Lamar, I mean…your father. I thought he’d been dead all of these years, but Augustus told me he’s not. He’s still alive. He’s still hurting you.”
    Aaron shook his head. “I…I don’t know what you’re…” he mumbled. He raked his fingers restlessly through his hair, then glanced at her. “I should go. It…it’s not safe for you to let me stay here.”
    “You’re not healed yet,” she said.
    “I’ll be alright,” he said as, with a wince, he rose to his feet. “I’ll live, at any rate,” he added in a mutter.
    “You don’t have a car anymore.”
    The corner of his mouth hooked. “I’ll take yours .”
    “ I’m not giving you the keys.”
    Another fleeting smile. “Don’t need them. I can hotwire an engine.”
    “Maybe I don’t want you to go.”
    He raised his eyebrow at this.
    “Not yet, anyway,”