Born in Twilight (2 page)

He lifted me, pressing my face into the crook of his neck, and he whispered, “Drink, Angelica. Drink…and live.”

He forced me closer, his hand on the back of my head. And my lips touched warmth, wetness on his throat. I tried to draw away, but my weakness would not allow it. And the first taste of it touched my tongue, quickening my senses. A jolt, like a blast of icy wind, shot through me. I think my eyes shot wide. My lips parted on a gasp, and more of the thick, salty liquid surged into my mouth. Had I not swallowed, I'd have drowned. And if I'd been as devout as I'd prided myself on being, that's precisely what I would have done. Let myself drown in this cursed elixir. Gone willingly into the arms of the Lord rather than surrendering myself to the instinctive need to stay alive. But instead, I swallowed. And that was when I first felt the power of this devilish hunger. It shot through me, overwhelming all that I had ever been. It took control, a need I couldn't even identify. I closed my lips over the wound in his throat…and I drank. Hungrily, greedily, I drank, and as I did, my body came alive with sensations I'd never known. So gluttonous was I, that he had to push me away when the curse was complete. Push me, his unwilling victim, away from his neck.

And I lay there in the garbage. And my eyes cleared. I could see. I could see everything. Every aspect of his white face, and black eyes, and bloodstained lips. Every grain of sand in the bricks of the building beside me. Every star in the sky. My skin tingled with new life, new awareness. I
felt
in a way I'd never felt before. The shape of each snowflake as it hit my skin. Every molecule of chilly air that caressed my face. Every pebble and piece of trash that lay beneath me. I could identify each vile smell. And my hearing…I could hear the conversations of people passing on the street. The roll of tires on the wet pavement. The squeaking of snow-dampened brakes.

I heard the traffic light turn green.

“What is this?” I cried, and my own voice was so shockingly different, so vivid and rich and clear, that I pressed my hands to my ears and squeezed my eyes shut tight.

“You'll learn to control it,” he told me. “You can close it out, hear only what you wish to hear. You'll learn. I'll teach you.” He removed my hands from my ears, pressed them to the rubbish at my sides. “I'll teach you. You'll live forever, Angelica. You're not mortal anymore. You're like me now.”

I opened my eyes. “Like you?” I was horrified.

“Yes.”

And my heart seemed to stop beating as I realized what he had done, what I had allowed him to do. “I'm damned,” I whispered.

“Come. Your first lesson awaits.” He hauled me to my feet, dragged me toward the mouth of the alley, though I pulled against him. My habit was torn as he grabbed at me. “Strong,” he whispered. “Already, you're very strong. You'll be even stronger, Angelica, after we feed.” He stopped, holding me there at the mouth of the alley, and I watched his odd, black eyes scan the passersby.

“Feed?” I whispered, terrified.

“Yes,” he said, and he smiled. I saw his teeth then, his fangs, razor sharp and glistening. “On them.” He nodded toward the people who passed.

Horror enveloped my heart. He was a monster! A demon. A…
a vampire.
I shivered as the word whispered in my mind. He'd made of me another creature just like him. And I'd allowed it. I'd even taken part in it. I'd—

He caught me up in his arms, though I fought, and he carried me back into the alley. Slinging me over his shoulder, he clutched the side of the building and began to climb. Like a spider, he made his way to the very top, and I stopped my struggling for fear I would fall. Higher and higher he went, and the wind blew stronger here. My beloved snowflakes became weapons. Tiny arrows slung by the Angel of the Lord to punish me. Cutting my face with their biting touch. And yet I did not shiver or suffer from the cold. Only felt it more acutely than I ever had.

He climbed onto the roof, and then raced over rooftops, leaping from one to the next. I think I screamed as we seemed to sail through the night sky like true demons. I think I screamed. If so, the sound of it is only a vague memory now.

We made our way to the ground again, to the streets, and I knew where we were. Not far from the shelter where I'd been so arrogantly going this night. Oh, why had I been so rebellious? Why?

He pointed, and I looked. A handful of the city's homeless stood around a fire barrel, warming their hands near the dancing flames. Red-orange light painting their haggard faces and illuminating their tattered clothes.

“There,” he said. “Our victims…ours for the taking, Angelica. Their lives will be no great loss.”

The people I'd spent years trying to help. This man intended to feed on them, to use them in order to sustain his own cursed life. “No,” I begged him. “No, please, we mustn't. It's a sin to kill!” For I knew that murder was exactly what he had on his mind.

He left me free to run if I chose. He must have known, animal that he was, that I could not. Like a great, stalking wolf, he crept up on them. But quickly. So quickly there was no time for me to shout a warning. And then, without hesitation, he grabbed one. There was a shout of alarm, and then the others scattered, vanishing in the night. And he held the man he'd chosen. A terror-stricken, aged face that I knew I had seen before. In the shelter. In the soup kitchens where I'd worked. I'd given him blankets, and that very sweater he wore. I'd prayed with him.

I raced forward, but too late. The beast had plunged his wretched teeth into the neck of the innocent old man. I battered his head, clawed at his face, but he only released his victim when he'd taken his fill. He lifted his head, and he smiled at me. And his lips gleamed scarlet in the firelight. I backed away, shaking my head, working my mouth but unable to speak.

The man whose name I could not recall slumped to the ground, eyes wide, but already glazing over. His face was the face of death, bathed in the dancing glow of the fire in the barrel beside him.

The monster licked his lips, and then with the speed of a striking cobra, snatched a handful of my hair and pulled, making me cry out in pain. “You shall never fight me again, Angelica. You're mine now. Mine, do you understand? All your life I've watched you, waited for you. You'll go where I go. Do as I say. Feed when I feed.” He glanced past me, into the shadows, and that evil smile returned. “Even now your first victim waits. There, quivering in the night, thinking we cannot see him in the darkness.” He stared down into my face. “I'll bring him to you, and you will take him, Angelica. You will drain him dry, or suffer my wrath.” And then he released me and started forward. I turned and saw the boy, a mere youth, dressed in tattered rags, crouching in the darkness, shivering and wide-eyed with fear. And I could not let that creature take his life. I could not.

My hand closed around a piece of wood that protruded from the fire barrel. The end I grasped was not burning, but as I pulled it out, I saw that the other end was aflame. With a low growl, one I could not believe came from me, I lunged forward, swinging my torchlike weapon with all of my newfound strength.

But it wasn't the force of my blow that did the deed. The flaming end of the club crashed against the vampire's head, knocking him to his knees. But I'm sure the damage I did was minimal. It was the flame. The blaze seemed to leap at him, fire licking at his hair, and then at his clothes. He surged to his feet, his lips parting in a snarl as he came at me. But the fire…I crossed myself as I watched it engulf him. It seemed as if he'd been doused in gasoline, the way the flames spread. I backed away when he reached for me. And that was all. He fell to the ground, and there was a surge of white-hot flames. And then nothing. The flames died away as if they'd never been. The tiny sparks and embers sailed into the night and blinked out, one by one. And not even ashes remained to soil the perfect white snow at my feet.

The boy in the shadows was gone, and I could hear his fleeing footsteps still reaching my ears as he ran. I staggered away, shocked, terrified, appalled. I had killed. I had been transformed. I was a creature like the one I had murdered. I was damned. Damned.

 

His hearing was excellent. Not preternaturally so, since he was still a mere mortal, but good enough to know what was going on. The bastards were going to kill him.

For three days, he'd been strapped to this table, inside this tiny cell. Poked and prodded by DPI scientists in white lab coats until there wasn't an inch of his skin they hadn't violated. Nothing. There wasn't a bodily fluid they hadn't taken samples of. Not one. But it wasn't humiliation he felt. It was rage. And this time, the bastards would pay. Jameson Bryant might not be a vampire, but he wasn't a child any longer, either. He was a grown man, and as of tonight, he was a man bent on revenge. He'd tear this building down brick by brick when he got free. He'd destroy the Division of Paranormal Investigations and everyone connected with it.

Jameson understood DPI's interest in him. He knew—had known since he was a boy—that he was different. His blood type was rare, shared with only a chosen few. The belladonna antigen made him a subject of study for these so-called scientists. The few, rare individuals with this blood type were the only mortals capable of being transformed. Being made over…becoming vampires. And every living vampire had claimed the belladonna antigen during their mortal lives.

DPI, in their quest to learn all there was to know about the undead—and thus enable themselves to rid the world of them—often used live research subjects. But they'd had their chance with Jameson long ago, when he'd been just a boy. And they'd nearly killed him then. Would have, if not for his undead friends. Roland in particular. Still, they'd had their time with Jameson Bryant. Surely there was no more they could learn from him now.

God, to think Tamara had once worked for these bastards! But she hadn't known. She hadn't known.

Jameson didn't know why every preternatural being on the planet didn't band together and destroy DPI the way DPI was intent on destroying them. They didn't deserve the constant harassment, the fear they were forced to live with due to this secretive government agency. Oh, certainly, there were evil ones among the undead. Just as there were among any race of beings. But for the most part, vampires were the best people Jameson had ever known. They'd taken him in when his mother had died. Practically raised him.

Well, if Roland and Eric and the others wouldn't raise a hand to bring this organization to ruin, Jameson would. It was time. Long past time.

They had their “specimens” he'd heard them say. The experiment had been completed in record time, and now they could go on with phase two, whatever the hell that was. Well. They weren't fools then. DPI knew from experience that Jameson Bryant's friends were not the kind of people they wanted to tangle with. And now they would “dispose of the subject” before any of his undead protectors were the wiser.

He pulled against the straps that held his arms and legs to the cold, metallic table. They had a surprise coming if they thought he'd go down without a fight. This might not be Jameson's first involvement with DPI, but it would damned well be his last.

One way or another.

“Jamey!”

At the harsh whisper, Jameson turned his head as far as the restraints would allow. And then he swore, because Roland stood at his cell, bending the bars apart as if they were made of rubber.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“What the hell do you think?” Roland stepped into the cell and easily tore through the straps that held Jameson pinned down. “Are you all right, Jamey?”

“Fine. And it's Jameson now.” He sat up, jumped down from the table and faced down the man he loved like a father. A man who was centuries old, but who appeared not much older than Jameson was now. Though a bit paler skinned, and with eyes that gleamed a little brighter than a mere mortal's would.

Roland smiled. “I keep forgetting. Look at you. You dwarf me now.”

“What you keep forgetting, Roland, is that I don't want my friends risking their lives for me.”

“It would have been riskier to leave you to them,” Roland said, and he shrugged sheepishly. “Rhiannon would have fed me to her cat.”

Jameson tried to hold on to his anger, but that was a useless effort. He could well imagine Roland's mate, Rhiannon, threatening just that, and since her “cat” was no less than a panther, it was a threat not to be taken lightly. Not that she'd ever carry it out. She adored her husband.

Jameson embraced Roland, who hugged him back just as fiercely. It had been a long time since they'd seen each other. Jameson had been leading a fairly normal, mortal life in San Diego, under an assumed name, thinking DPI would never find him again. He owned a bar there, and profits were good.

And then one day as he'd locked up and headed for his car, he'd been grabbed by two thugs in dark suits, and the next thing he knew he was strapped to a table in White Plains. Talk about déjà vu.

“We can catch up later,” Roland said, releasing him. “Eric is—”

“Eric is here?” Jameson asked, suddenly angry all over again. Damn, when would they learn not to risk their lives every time he got into trouble? “And Tamara?”