Twilight Fulfilled (11 page)

Lillian bit her lip. It was clear to Utana that she knew more than he did about events here. About who the dancers truly were, and what their duties entailed. Sending a quick look around the room, she let her gaze linger on the bed of pillows where Brigit had slept, and then on the clothes she'd worn to dance for him, hanging over the back of a chair.

“I'm going to want to speak to this girl personally,” she said.

Nashmun said nothing to her. He spoke to Utana. “I'll be back momentarily, my king.” Then he went to the bedroom door and opened it, standing there, waiting.

Lillian huffed, snapped her bag closed and strode out of the room. Nashmun went out behind her and closed the door.

Quickly Utana flung back his blanket and got to his feet. Weakness hit him as if it were a wave
in the great sea. He gripped the headboard to keep from falling, closed his eyes and willed it to pass.

When it did, he moved as quickly as he dared to the door. His gait was unsteady, weak. Why did this have to happen to him now, just when he'd been beginning to regain his strength? He cursed the power of the garden gate anew in his mind, then reminded himself that he had asked his gods for an answer. And apparently they had delivered it.

Near the door he stopped and, bending, pressed his ear close to the wood.

“—think you're forgetting who's in charge of this operation,” Nashmun was saying.

“And I think
you're
forgetting,” Lillian replied, “that I've been asked to report to the director personally. And I don't think he's going to like this. There was nothing in the plan about providing him with a consort, for God's sake.”

“I am aware of what was in the plan. Hell, I
wrote
the fucking plan.”

“Then you know better.”

“I know it's working,” Nashmun said. “Look, he trusts her, is even attached to her already. She could be our strongest weapon. We can use her to control him.”

“Why would she be willing to let us use her that way?” she asked. “Have you asked yourself that?”

“She's bucking for a promotion. Why else?”

Utana sensed the change in Nash's tone. He was
lying to the doctor. He knew something more about Brigit than he was letting on.

“Why else?”
The woman sounded surprised by the question. Then she sighed. “You're a straight male, so perhaps you haven't noticed, but this king of yours is a handsome man. A powerful, beautiful, sexy man. You're playing with fire here, Nash. This girl could turn from our strongest weapon into our biggest problem faster than you can even imagine.”

Nash was silent, his mind closed to Utana.

The woman sighed, then spoke again. “On the other hand, if she's truly loyal and as ambitious as you say, you're right, she could prove extremely useful in controlling him.”

“That's all I'm saying. And besides, we won't need him much longer. The Dymphna Project is almost ready to go. I just need to remove another obstacle or two before we can launch Phase Two. If there are any vampires left alive, this plan will flush them out, bring them right to us. And once we have them all together, in one place…” He said no more.

Utana shivered.

The woman outside the door sighed. “Just to be sure, I'd like to go over this dancer's records, her psychological profile, her history with the Division. If I don't find any red flags, then…I'll back you on this with the director.”

“That's fair enough.”

“Which girl is it?”

“Um…hell, I don't recall her name.”

“Have you seen her…during the day?”

Nash released a soft chuckle. “Yes, I've seen her during the day. I'd know if she were a vampire, for God's sake. Do you think I'm a rookie?”

Lillian sniffed. “All right. Get her name and text it to me. I'll pull her records when I get into the office tomorrow.”

Utana had heard enough. And his head was swimming yet again. He managed to shuffle-step himself back to the bed and fell onto it. But even as he righted himself and pulled the covers over himself once again, he knew that there was a problem. A very large problem.

Brigit's identity was about to be exposed.

 

Brigit didn't come out of hiding until she saw out the window that the doctor and her shiny maroon SUV, which looked like something a soccer mom would drive, were gone. But she'd heard every single word.

And it was a damned good thing she had.

She had to get out of this place—and she had to do it tonight. But before she did, she had to find out exactly what they'd been talking about with this… Dymphna Project. What could they be up to?

If she were smart, she would find a way to get what she needed and get clear of this place with
out once setting foot back in the bedroom of her sworn enemy. Already, in searching the bedroom for anything she could use, she'd located clothes to wear as she made her getaway: a pair of jeans only a little too big, a sweatshirt, even socks and a pair of slightly tight tennis shoes. She should just go, just find a way out and go.

And in fact, that was exactly what she intended to do. Until she heard him calling to her mentally.

Brigit. Come back to me, Lady Moonlight. I have information you must know.

She frowned, going still, part of her wanting to block him from her mind and the rest of her wanting to run to him as fast as humanly possible. And all of her was just plain curious. What information could he possibly have for her?

Had he overheard Nash and the doctor's conversation, too? Would he actually warn her? Help her to avoid capture? And if so, why, when he was sworn to kill her in the end?

She pulled her borrowed robe tighter and tucked her borrowed clothing inside. Tiptoeing, she left the safety of the vacant bedroom and walked quietly back toward Utana's room. The same guard was still outside the door. Over the railing, she saw Nash Gravenham-Bail walking through a door on the far side of the circular atrium-slash-great room into what looked like an office. She paused, watching him. In the quick glance she was afforded while
he moved through the open door, she saw a desk, bookshelves, a computer screen and a row of tall filing cabinets.

She needed to get in there, she realized suddenly. And then she resumed moving toward Utana's room.

The guard saw her approaching, and she smiled nervously, wondering if he'd seen the direction of her attention just then. He tapped the door twice, opened it slightly and said, “Your lady is back, my king.”

“Good.”

Nodding, the guard opened the door wider, letting her pass without more than a cursory glance. She couldn't tell a thing from the expression on his face.

Utana stared up at her when she reached the bed. “Are you feeling better?” she asked.

“The doctor eased my suffering, yes. But I'm…weakened. And flustered. And…”
You need to get out of here, Brigit. The healer-woman is going to check your name and learn you are not one of them.
“And I've missed you,” he said aloud.

Her response to his words was a softening. A believing. Her response to his warning was even warmer, but her questions were still wary.
Why are you warning me? You are my enemy.

I do not wish to be your enemy any longer, Brigit of the Vahmpeers.

If you are an enemy to my people, you are my enemy. You can't have it both ways, Utana.

She waited then. For what, she wasn't sure. Did she really expect him to betray his gods just for the sake of a passing attraction that he'd probably felt a hundred times before for a hundred other women? His real harem slaves. His real dancers. His real wives?

“Sit here beside me,” he said, patting the bedside. “Please.”

She turned away to take off the robe, letting the clothes inside fall to the floor, then kicking them under the bed. Then she sat near him, even knowing it was a dangerous thing to do. “Of course, my king,” she said.
Did you hear anything else I should know about?

His eyes shifted away from hers.
I need you to heal me, Brigit. I do not trust them.

If he meant to distract her, he was doing a damn good job of it. Finally he believed her. Then again, it was kind of hard to deny what she'd told him, now that his so-called friends had electrocuted him for trying to leave.
You'll give me back my powers, as well as my brother's?

No. I will give you the power I took from your brother. The power to heal. Not to destroy, for if I do, I fear you will destroy me.

She looked at him quickly, about to lie through her teeth and promise that she wouldn't. But he only
shook his head.
You've just told me I am the enemy of your people, and therefore your enemy. And your honesty is…of value to me.

“I won't help you if you don't give it back to me,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes.

“Then I will suffer,” he whispered back. “But at least I will not die—only to be trapped in a rotting body, my consciousness held prisoner by the curse of the gods. I cannot return to that.”

Her eyes shot to his, guilty eyes, because she knew that was exactly what would happen to him if she killed him. And it was almost more than she could bear to think about. God, how could she sentence a man to that?

And yet how could she let him live, only to know he would murder everyone she loved?

This was impossible.

His hand was on her upper arm, and then his fingers brushed over her cheek, compelling her to face him. And when she did, he was far closer to her than she had known, his face only an inch from her own.

His hand cupped the base of her head, and his mouth found hers.

And God, it was heaven and it was hell all at once. How could she want a man so badly when he was going to destroy her entire family?

How could she be so weak?

So full of desire?

For him?

She opened her mouth to him, and his arms wrapped around her, pulling her chest to his as he kissed her so deeply it felt as if he were trying to steal her very soul. Or maybe he already had. Maybe he'd somehow taken possession of it when he'd stolen her powers. Like the devil himself, maybe he had that power.

God, she wanted him.

Her hands buried themselves in his long hair, and she fed from his mouth, thinking nothing had ever tasted so good. Nothing had ever made her want more so desperately.

His arms around her felt completely possessive, encompassing and safe. So powerful and strong, so very strong. She was protected, though that was not something she had ever wanted, much less needed. She was strong, self-sufficient and proud of it.

Why, then, did it feel so good to be wrapped up in him, safe from all the world?

When he lifted his head away, her eyes were glowing, and she knew it. She saw him see that glow and react in surprise. Passion brought out the vampire in her. Her fangs had elongated, and her mouth was hungry for a taste of him. The need burned in her, demanding satiation, as her eyes fixed themselves on the powerful pulsing in his throat.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. “Even this part of you. So very beautiful.”

She forcibly averted her eyes. This was not the time. “All of my kind are equally beautiful. Why won't you let them live?”

“I begged the gods to allow it. I asked them for a sign. And then the gate nearly killed me. I have my answer.”

“That wasn't an answer from the gods, Utana. That was a trap, set for you by the evil people in this place.” She lowered her head, blinking tears from her eyes. “Give me the power and I'll heal you.”

“It is already done,” he said softly. “Will you help me now, my moonlight lady?”

She nodded. “I owe you a favor. For warning me. Thank you.” She rubbed her palms together until they were warm and tingling, and then she opened them and stared into them. “I'm not exactly sure how this works, but…”

His hands closed on her wrists, turned them until her palms were facing his chest. Then he lay back and closed his eyes.

If there had been a blade nearby, a dagger, she could have plunged it straight through his heart quite easily, she thought. And then she saw the silver letter opener on the nearby nightstand, and her mind got stuck on it. Its blade was sharp and four inches in length. Big enough, she thought, if her aim were true. She stretched out a hand to pick
it up, barely moving the rest of her body, her eyes affixed to his broad, beautiful chest, expanding as he inhaled, tempting her hands and lips to touch and taste.

Her hand closed on the letter opener, and the pain in her chest was as deep as if she'd plunged it into her own heart.

S
enator Marlene MacBride sat on the sofa in her D.C. apartment, files open and spread out all around her. She was fully aware that Gravenham-Bail had only given her what he wanted her to see, and even with that, she was horrified at the accounts she was reading. Accounts of vampires held in captivity, dying in captivity, in DPI-owned facilities. They'd been treated like guinea pigs.

She learned all about their kind as she read. About the aversion to sunlight, the need to feed on human blood, the tendency to bleed out, the superhuman strength and speed, the heightened senses and the additional ones—like telepathy. But nothing she read led her to believe they were a gang of murderous monsters.

She was more troubled than ever.

The wine helped. She was on her third glass, and feeling far more relaxed than she had up to now.
Her visit to the St. Dymphna Hospital had left her pretty wrought up. Oh, everyone there was being treated well. But there were kids there….

One, in particular, had struck a chord with her. A little girl, about seven, with blond ringlets and blue, blue eyes that had seemed to look right through her.

She pushed the shiver of the memory aside. Her decision was made. She was going to pull the plug, and the funding, on St. Dymphna's. She saw no evidence that the people being put up there were in any sort of danger, nor any evidence that vampires were dangerous at all.

Her initial report would also recommend that Nash Gravenham-Bail be pulled from any operation having anything to do with vampires. He was clearly biased and not to be trusted on the matter.

That report was typed up and ready to go. She would hand it to her aide in the morning, to have it copied and sent on to Senator Polenski. Then she was taking a two-week vacation—she had a cruise booked, and a husband waiting. While she was away, Polenski could decide if he still wanted her to gather a committee to investigate this further.

In the meantime, sun and sea awaited her.

She finished her wine, set the glass down and decided to leave the files where they were until morning. She shut off all the lights and padded into her bedroom. Suddenly something heavy hit her in the head. Light exploded behind her eyes, and she was gone.

 

Utana was still lying there, vulnerable, arms at his sides, eyes closed. Trusting her. Wanting her. And she wanted him just as badly.

Brigit withdrew her hand, leaving the blade where it was. There would be another time, she told herself, though she thought it might very well be a lie.

She closed her eyes and called up the power from deep inside. She drew it up from the earth below, from the sky above, felt it streaming into her, green and gold, meeting in her middle and swirling there until her solar plexus pulsed with power. Mentally she split that sphere in two and streamed it out into her shoulders, down her arms and into her palms.

The heat in her hands increased. It burned strongly enough that her eyes were startled open, and then she saw the warm white glow emanating from her hands and vanishing into his body.

“It's working.”
He whispered the words urgently. “I feel it wor—”

“Shhhh.”
She kept the power flowing, sensed it spreading out inside him, following the veins and the network of nerves to every part of his being, and a moment later he slid his bandaged hand beneath one of hers and pressed it palm to palm, interlacing fingers, holding it there.

The energy grew hotter, pulsed harder, but only momentarily. And then it was fading, paling, receding.

She drew a deep breath and lifted her head. “Wow,” she whispered.

He smiled up at her. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

And for one brief moment they were just two people. Not sworn enemies, not immortals, not opponents in an Armageddon-level standoff.

They were just a man and a woman.

And then he was sliding his hands up around her shoulders and pulling her close, kissing her again. Waving a hand, he made the bed curtains all gather together without touching them, just as he had done before.

It wasn't his fault, she thought, as he pulled her body on top of his, moving against her, kissing her deeply, passionately, endlessly. It wasn't his fault. He was becoming saner all the time, more logical all the time. He was listening to her, believing her about Nash Gravenham-Bail and the DPI and their lies. He was believing her. And when his mind had time to heal from all those thousands of years trapped, buried alive… When his mind had time to heal, he would believe her about the rest. He would understand that there might be an explanation for his condition other than a curse from the gods. He would believe her when she told him that his gods
could not possibly want him to wipe out her family. He
would
. If she could keep him away from them long enough, just long enough, for his mind to heal.

For his mind…

To heal…

And then she realized that maybe she could speed up
that
process, too.

He distracted her from those thoughts, distracted her thoroughly, by pushing the nightie she wore up her body, peeling it over her head and tossing it aside. Brigit found herself sitting astride the big man as he stared up at her in the darkness. His hands cupped her breasts, kneaded and squeezed. Then they slid around to her back and pulled her forward, and his mouth took the place of those hands. He suckled; he nipped. Her breaths came faster as sensations overwhelmed her. Almost as if she would drown in them. And they did not let up.

As he gently, relentlessly tortured her breasts, his hands cupped her bottom, lifting and squeezing, spreading and pressing. And then he slid one hand in between their bodies, finding her center, opening it and probing. He didn't take his time. He didn't wait for consent. He spread, and he entered. And when she pulled back, startled by the suddenness of the invasion, he gripped her, held her, made her take it. One finger became two, thrusting forcefully, burrowing deep and still deeper. Hard, he drove his fingers into her. Over and over. And in moments
she no longer pulled away but rode his hand, meeting that driving force that was him.

He was a different man, from a different time. And this was not the time for lessons in wooing. He wasn't wooing, he was taking. Possessing. And she found herself knowing there was no going back now, and glad of it.

He withdrew his fingers. His hands closed around her waist and lifted her, pulling her forward and then yanking her hips down again, so that she straddled not his hips or his bulging erection, but his face. No time to think or object, no way to pull back from his powerful grip. He was devouring her. His tongue stabbing into her, his lips closing around her. Even his teeth pressed together, sending bolts of delicious pain shooting through her body before his tongue licked it all away again. He repeated the torment, alternating pleasure and pain until the two were one, and she embraced and welcomed and surrendered to them as the waves of ecstasy began washing over her.

But no, no, not yet. He lifted her again, hands still at her waist. He moved her as he pleased, with no effort at all. And a heartbeat later he was lowering her again, this time entering her as he did.

He was big. Huge. Her eyes widened at the depth to which he filled her and the feeling of his thickness. Her body stretched tight around him. No time to adjust to the full sensation, no time at all. He
was raising her up, pulling her down, as his hips arched to push into her over and over, until she was once again on the brink of ecstasy. And this time he pushed her over and came crashing down with her.

He held her hard and moaned. She bit his shoulder to keep from doing the same, and when she tasted blood, her fangs elongated and sank into his flesh. She drank, and the climax racking her body intensified tenfold, and went on and on and on.

It was only as she lay atop him, her entire body limp with relief, that she remembered her earlier thought. Gently she slid her hands to either side of his head and, holding him there, she called up the power. She felt it rise, and as she guided it into him, into her beautiful, powerful, twisted man, she wished with everything in her that it would have the desired effect.

A soft beam of white light glowed from her palms.

Anunaki, if you're real, heal this man and save his people. And in so doing, save his soul. For I believe it's a soul worth saving.

 

Nash used IV needles and tubing, which he'd stretched all the way from the senator's bathtub to her bedside. It wasn't all that difficult. Two quick punctures to her jugular, a little tape to keep the needles in place. He thrust the other ends of the
twin tubes far enough into the bathtub drain to keep any of the blood from being visible.

While she lay there, unconscious from a blow to the head, bleeding out, he walked around her apartment, arranging things to make it look believable. It had to look like there had been a struggle. How else would she suffer a head injury before the vampire drained her dry, proving to the world that they were every bit as dangerous as he had always said they were?

He tipped over a few pieces of furniture. He kicked the file folders, so their contents flew every where.

Then he took her little report and replaced it with the one he'd taken the liberty of typing up himself. His version said that she supported his work fully but was afraid that in so doing, she was putting herself at risk. The vampires wanted to stop him, the new report claimed. That must not be allowed to happen.

It was going to look great in the press. As if she'd had a premonition she might be targeted. The sensationalism-loving media ate up this sort of thing with a spoon. And it had been too damn quiet for their taste since the vigilante movement had been shut down, thanks to Brigit and her little resistance gang.

But she was in his control now—the pretty little mongrel. She thought he didn't know who the hell she was. She thought he was an idiot.

“Surprise, little Brigit Poe,” he said softly, as he returned to the senator's bedroom to watch the blood pulsing through the tubes until it slowed to a trickle. And then stopped altogether. “My mamma didn't raise any idiots, before she took off with one of your animalistic relatives.” He lowered his head, stroking the scar on his cheek, hidden now beneath the black ski mask he wore. He'd tried to stop the vampire from taking his mother away—tried with a hatchet. And his mother had turned on him, newborn fangs baring as she'd hissed like a wildcat. Her clawed hands had flashed, glass-hard nails cutting deep.

And then she'd vanished into the night with her Undead bastard of a protector by her side. She'd left him bleeding, his father weeping.

The weakling. If he'd been half a man, he would have used the shotgun he'd been holding in his trembling hands. Nash would have. In a freakin' heartbeat, he would have.

Fifty-two stitches later, Nash had known that destroying her kind would be his life's work. And if a few innocent humans had to die in the process, well, that was too fucking bad.

He looked down at the pale lifeless corpse in the bed. Too bad. Then he took the tubing from her throat and carefully began rolling it up, following it to the bathroom. Without spilling a droplet, he bagged up the tubing and the original report.

On the way out, he opened the balcony doors that looked down twenty stories onto the D.C. streets below. Then he left through the basement, emerging into the alley between buildings, same way he'd gone in. No one saw him arrive. No one saw him leave. And in ten minutes he would be back at the palace with the clueless king and his overconfident mongrel lover, whom he didn't dare leave alone for very long.

 

Brigit was shattered.

There was no other way to describe what she felt. This man who now lay in the bed beside her, snoring softly, his big powerful arms holding her to him as if she were some rare treasure that might escape him, his fingers stroking over her skin every now and then, even in his sleep—this man was like no other.

He'd made her body melt beneath his touch. He'd made her feel things she had never ever felt before. He'd driven her so out of her mind—literally, she'd existed only in sensation in those moments—that she'd vamped up. She'd bitten him, tasted his blood.

Tasted it still on her tongue, salty and sharp. And the tiny fang marks on his neck and shoulder, which would vanish at the first touch of sunlight, stood now like beacons, announcing how far he'd driven her.

She had to have help. She had to talk to Rhi
annon. Or her mother, or maybe her brother…yes. James. James would understand. He was all into feelings and emotions and goodness and sickening nonsense like that.

She wasn't in love. It would be ridiculous to think this was love. It was sex. Mind-blowing, earth-shattering, soul-bending sex.

And she wanted more of it—she craved it more than she craved life itself. And yet she had to kill the one who'd given it to her. God, the world was one fucked-up place.

Maybe…maybe her attempt at healing his wounded mind would take. God, she could only hope.

Gently she slid out from beneath his massive arm, her bare feet lowering to the floor and feeling every fiber of the thick carpet against her soles in a way she wouldn't have before. Her senses were heightened—no doubt due to the power of his blood now coursing through her veins.

As she bent low, pulling the stolen clothing from beneath the bed and putting it on, slipping on socks but ignoring shoes as too potentially noisy, her chief awareness should have been on the camera that was no doubt tracking her every move, catching glimpses of her nudity. But she barely gave it a second thought. Her focus was completely on him. Every step she took away from him felt harder—as
if a thick rubber band connected them, stretching thin, pulling tighter, the farther she moved.

Pulling her straight back to him.

I have to go.

Yes. Before morning, before that Cruella de Vil lookalike lady doctor called Lillian ran her fake name through the CIA's employee records and found out she didn't exist.