Twilight Fulfilled (4 page)

 

Utana had managed to force his eyes open before the sun rose. Pain still throbbed in his body from the single blow she had landed in their battle of the night before. And yet, as he'd studied the beautiful woman in his arms, he was overcome with feelings that were counter to his purpose. He told himself that it was little more than the natural urge to possess her. That any man would feel the same. It was only nature. He was male, she was female. And he wanted to take her, there on the floor of the wooded glen.

And yet, from within, came the knowledge that he denied and refused to hear. The same knowledge that had held him back from destroying her, and had made him hurl his bolts far from her soft and pleasing form.

Passion he could understand. Tenderness? For his enemy? No, that would not do. And while he
wanted her, and thought she might not object too strongly should he take her, he held back. He told himself that it was because to mount her here and now would mean to stir her to wakefulness. And then the battle between them would no doubt begin again. And he was still in more pain than he cared to be—for a fight.

She was no ordinary woman. Perhaps she would not be owned. Indeed, according to James, women in this strange world were equal to men and able to choose. He'd thought it a joke. But truly, he had never known a woman like this one. She might very well be the equal of any man he'd ever known. At least in battle.

Perhaps in passion, as well. The kiss they had shared had been as eagerly returned as received. And fiery, too.

But no, he had a mission—a mission of the utmost urgency, assigned him by the Anunaki. He'd suffered too much at their hands to give up on the task they had given him. And truly, there must be just cause. The gods would not order the destruction of an entire race unless it were truly necessary.

He could not doubt them. He had to do as they decreed. He would not defy them again, for the suffering he had known for doing so once—just once—had been beyond human endurance. Should he cross them again, he could not even imagine what punishments might await him.

And so it was that he eased himself from the embrace of the sleeping female and rose carefully to his feet. For a moment he stood looking down at her as she slept, one hand pressed to his belly, where the skin was burned to black. Her hair was the color of sunlight. Pale yellow gold, and there were leaves of green and gold clinging to its curls. Her eyes, closed now, were the most unusual eyes he had ever seen. His people, all he had known, had eyes the color of onyx stone. Black eyes, to match their hair and their brows. But Brigit—she had eyes like the eyes of Enlil, the God of Air and Sky. Palest blue, with rims of black outlining the color. Her eyes seemed as if they could see through him.

Wise, she was.

Perhaps her words ought to be heeded.

No. She was woman, working on his resolve as only a woman could do. He tore himself away and began trekking through the forest. He needed to distance himself from the beautiful warrioress Brigit, because when near her, he could sense nothing else. Even his pain faded beneath the onslaught of that which was her. Her scent, her vitality. With distance, he would once again be able to home in on the essence of the surviving vahmpeers and resume his pursuit of them.

He hated the task that lay before him. He resented the gods for putting it upon him. And yet he dared not refuse.

Miles later, though, it was still Brigit he felt even as he emerged from the forest onto a road. She had filled his senses, leaving room for nothing else. He was in terrible condition. His clothing, the white robe James had called “toga” was filthy. Dry now, at least. But filthy. His body likewise.

He paused then, beside the road, and tipped his head up to the heavens. “I have no offering to proffer,” he said in his own tongue. The new one still felt awkward to him, despite his ability to learn facts by touching objects. “Yet I beg of you, ancient and mighty ones—take this task from me. Allow my offspring to live. Free me of this curse. Surely I have suffered long enough.”

He closed his eyes and waited for a sign. When none came, he sighed, resolved, and tried again. “If you will not relieve me of this mission, then at least provide me with the means to achieve it. I require shelter. Clothing. Food.”

Again he closed his eyes, and waited.

He did not have to wait long. One of the humans' mechanized carts rolled to a stop beside him, and even as he stood there watching, a man got out. He was tall and very lean, and his eyes were the color of pale stone. He bore a battle scar upon his face that spoke of power. Utana recognized the man—had met him once before. The man emerged from the cart—car, Utana corrected himself mentally—and stood facing him.

As Utana stared at the man, preparing himself to blast him should he move aggressively, the newcomer dropped to one knee, genuflecting, lowered his head and said, “Oh, great and mighty King Ziasudra. It is indeed an honor to kneel before you.”

Utana felt his brows lift. The rush of pleasure at hearing his old name, even spoken in such a terrible accent, and at being addressed as was befitting a king, was tinged by doubt and suspicion.

But he withheld judgment, watchful and wary. “Rise, mortal, and tell me what you want of me.”

The scar-faced man lifted his head but did not rise. “Better to ask what you want of me. Do you remember me, my lord?”

“You were held captive by Brigit of the Vahmpeers. You were among those she called…vi-gi-lants.”

“Vigilantes, yes. And it was you who set me free. You saved my life, my king. And now I can finally repay that debt. If you will allow it.”

Utana shrugged. “What do you want of me?”

“You are the Ancient One, the flood survivor, Utanapishtim, are you not? The first immortal? Beloved of the gods?”

Utana narrowed his eyes on the human. “I am. But that does not tell me who you are, nor how you know these things that few mortals of your time know.”

“My name is Nash Gravenham-Bail,” the man
said. “I have been awaiting your coming, which was foretold to the leaders of my nation. I am a powerful man within my government, my king. But as of right now, I am your servant, sent to tend to you on behalf of my president.”

Utana frowned. The leaders of this world knew of his resurrection? “I know not…pres-ee-dent.”

“It's our word for king.”

“Ah.” Then the king of this land knew of him, as well?

“Will you come with me?” the man went on, still down on one knee. “I have a house for you. Food. Clothing. All you require and more.”

“Why?” Utana asked. “Why wish you…to help me, human?”

The man lowered his eyes. “I don't blame you for being suspicious of me, my friend. The truth is, my president and I have no love for the vampires you've come to destroy. He wishes to honor you as is befitting a ruler, even one from another time.”

“And you?” Utana asked.

The man bowed his head. “I, too, believe in the old gods, the Anunaki. Enki, Enlil, the great Anu, the fierce Inanna. I, too, wish to do their will, to solicit their blessings in this world where few even know their names. Helping you will give me a way to please them. I believe it is what they want of me.” He licked his lips, perhaps nervously. “And as I've already said, you saved my life when you freed me
from the vampires. And I am deeply grateful for that.”

At last, Utana thought. Something he could understand, something he could relate to. And yet, he must be cautious. This world was not his own, and this human, though they had met before, was still a stranger to him.

He would go with this man, but he would exercise extreme wariness and care. But he was wise and powerful enough, he thought, to risk it. And the rewards of food, of shelter, of a base from which to work while he healed from the painful wound delivered by the lovely warrior woman Brigit, were far too tempting to resist.

“Be it so,” he said to the man. “My vizier, you shall be. Rise, Nashmun,” he went on, giving the man a name he preferred, “and serve me well.” As the man stood upright again, Utana leaned close. He stared intently into the human's cold gray eyes. “Betray me not, Nashmun. My wrath knows no mercy.”

Near Washington, D.C.

A
t 7:00 a.m., in a truck stop not known for safety, Roxy, wearing a black pageboy wig and large round glasses, along with skintight leggings, a leather jacket and matching boots, sat at a table in the back and waited. She looked like Velma from
Scooby-Doo,
if Velma had joined a biker gang. The senator came in, looking nervous as hell, and as out of place as a goldfish in a barracuda tank. She clicked through the place in her sensible two-inch navy blue pumps that matched her blazer that matched her skirt, looking around in the most obvious manner possible.

“Shit,” Roxy muttered. She quickly got up and made her way past the crowd of patrons, mostly large men and a few large women, talking loudly, chugging coffee and eating meals big enough to
feed a small third-world village. She gripped the senator by the forearm and leaned in close. “Could you be more obvious?”

With a sharp look her way, the senator frowned. “Are you—”

“Endora,” Roxy said. She'd had to pick a phony name when she'd emailed the senator, and her favorite TV witch had seemed like a good enough choice. “We need to make this fast.”

“I'm all for that.”

“Did you tell anyone you were coming here?”

“Yes.”

Roxy stopped walking, sent her a look.

“My private security guy, the guy who screens my email. And no one else. I wasn't going to come here alone.”

Roxy glanced toward the entry, a big glass door.

“He took the limo around back, but I can get him back here fast if needed.”

“Gave you a panic button, did he?”

The senator averted her eyes. “Your message said this was about my new committee post. That you have information I need. What is it?”

She was a pretty thing, Roxy thought. And she had that idealistic fire in her eyes she'd glimpsed before in young politicians. Before they'd been around long enough to have it extinguished by the good ol' boys who wanted to keep the status quo.

“This way.”

The two made their way to the table in the back, and Roxy slid into her chair and shoved a mug of coffee across the table. “I ordered for you.”

“I prefer tea.”

“You drink coffee today.”

Roxy sipped her own, and the senator followed suit. Without further delay, Roxy said, “There's a former mental hospital called St. Dymphna's in Mount Bliss, Virginia, that's been commandeered by the DPI. You know about the DPI, right?”

The senator blinked rapidly, lowered her eyes. “I'm afraid that's—”

“Classified. I know that. Look, Ms. MacBride, I don't need you to tell me anything. I already know. I'm just trying to determine how much
you
know.”

“I…know a lot.”

“Not as much as you think, I'll bet, so I'll start at the beginning, and that's the DPI. Division of Paranormal Investigations. A black ops division of the CIA in charge of investigating vampires. It's been committing the kinds of crimes against other living beings over the past couple of centuries that make Saddam Hussein look like Mother Theresa. Only difference being their victims were vampires. Not humans.”

The woman's eyes widened as she searched Roxy's.

“Yeah, I can see that's something you didn't know. Well, here's the thing. Right now they're
rounding up all the human beings with the Belladonna Antigen and stashing them in St. Dymphna's.”

The senator swallowed hard. “Humans with the antigen have been targeted by…vampires more than any other group of—”

“That's bullshit. Propaganda. Who told you that?”

“It's part of the research I was given by—”

“Research. Their research has been done by capturing perfectly innocent people who happen to be vampires and torturing them. Killing them. Experimenting on them.”

“Look, I don't know who you are or why you think I'd believe—”

She'd started to get up, but Roxy gripped her wrist and jerked her back into her seat. “Humans with the Belladonna Antigen are the only ones capable of becoming vampires. Vampires sense them, and are compelled to watch over and protect them—even if it's to their own detriment. They can't help themselves. They're incapable of harming the Chosen, which is what they call those people.”

Senator MacBride held Roxy's eyes. “Are you sure about this?”

“I'm the oldest living person with the antigen,” Roxy told her. “I'm sure. Vampires have saved my life many times over the years, and I've seen them do the same for others. They're my friends.
Not
evil.
Not
monsters. And no matter what the DPI tells you, those humans being rounded up and stuck in that asylum are
not
there for their own protection.”

“Then why…?”

“I don't know. But whatever the reason, you can bet it isn't good. You need to look into this.”

The senator nodded. “I will.”

“Don't take too long.” Roxy pushed away from the table, dragged a twenty from her pocket and slapped it down. Then she headed for the restroom at the end of a long narrow hallway in the back. Glancing behind her to make sure she was unobserved, she ducked into the men's room, rather than the women's, and moved quickly into the second stall. Unseen. Perfect. She pulled large jeans and a pillow for padding out of the bag she'd stashed there earlier, switched her jacket for a bigger one, ditched the wig and glasses, donned a moustache and beard, pulled on a billed cap with a bulldog logo on the front, and headed out again. She walked right by the senator on her way out, and the woman didn't even give her a second glance. She was on the phone, probably with her security guy.

Outside, Roxy saw what had to be the senator's car pulling to a stop. Off to one side a man in a long dark coat stood watching. Not the senator's bodyguard. Someone else.

Roxy had known this was dangerous. She was
glad she'd taken the precautions she had. Because either Senator Marlene MacBride was being watched…

…or
she
was.

Near Bangor, Maine

Brigit stood high on the hilltop, overlooking the winding road below, and watched as Utana spoke with a tall male mortal. The man's back was toward her, and she observed only that he was thin and wearing a brown “duck” type coat against the chill of the early morning. He drove a big SUV, dark green in color. It fit in here, just as his coat did. Perhaps he was a local. One of those bleeding heart, trusting types who took in strangers.

The idiot didn't know what kind of power he was playing with. Or what kind of danger. Utana was a time bomb. A killing machine with a warped mind.

There's so much more to him than that.

Now where had that thought come from?

Utana's face was visible in the early-morning sun. She'd deliberately stayed far enough away that she hoped he wouldn't sense her, but God knew she could still sense him. Not the killing machine part of him, but the man. The man who, she realized, had wept at the sight of all the carnage he'd caused. The man who'd kissed her as if she were the first shelter he'd seen on an endless trek across a burning desert. As if she were his first sip of water.

And she had to kill him.

God, what the hell was wrong with the world, anyway?

She sighed and dragged her attention back to the scene unfolding below. In spite of her mission, she found herself feeling ridiculously glad some Good Samaritan was taking pity on the once great king. Oh, she had no doubt the guy would regret it later, once he realized that Utana was completely off his rocker—a fact the stranger should have picked up on from the simple fact that Utana was wearing a filthy bedsheet like a toga.

Wait, something was happening. The local was opening the passenger side door of his SUV. Holding it as if he expected Utana to get in.

Hell,
no, Brigit thought. There was no way he would trust a stranger, much less a mortal one.

Utana turned then, gazing in her direction as if he sensed her there. She sidestepped, ducking behind a bushy-boughed sentinel pine.

And then she heard him, speaking to her with his mind as clearly as if he were standing beside her, saying his words into her ear, his voice deep and resonant and sending chills up her spine.

I will not kill you yet, Brigit of the Vahmpeers.
His thoughts were clear, their meaning overriding his broken English.
When I have done the rest, I will ask the Anunaki to spare you. Perhaps they will agree.

A red haze of fury rose up in her, and she stepped out from behind the tree.
You'll let me live to see all those I love die before me? And you're expecting my gratitude for that?

It is all I can do.

He lowered his head, bent low to get into the car.

Hey! Where the hell do you think you're going? Don't you know better than to trust strangers? Hey!

But he got into the car anyway, and the man closed the passenger door, then went around to the driver's side and got in. The car moved away, and Brigit had no idea where it was taking her quarry.

She was cold, tired, hungry and pissed. She was frustrated as all hell and wishing for a way to shirk the duty that had fallen to her to carry out. And she had a long walk on her hands, back to Bangor where she'd left her car and her supplies.

But she needed to know where this idiot was taking Utana before she acted on any of those pressing matters. And so she set off on foot, calling on her superhuman—though not quite vampiric—levels of speed and endurance to pull it off.

She followed the SUV to a small no-tell motel on the outskirts of Bangor, grateful that they were at least heading in the same general direction as her car. The two men got out and opened a door a third of the way along the single-story motel. Room 6, she noted.

And then, as she stood there, an aroma turned her
head around. There was a diner across the street. Her stomach growled like a pit bull at the smell of used French fry grease. God, she needed food. She didn't know what was going on in that motel room, but she would have a clear view of it from the diner. She could watch just as easily from a table along the front wall, with a big fat plate of empty calories in front of her, right?

Right.

So she straightened away from the telephone pole she'd been leaning against and walked across the cracked blacktop to the greasy spoon.

She laughed, because that really was the name of the place. The Greasy Spoon.

The bell above the door jangled when she walked in, and a woman said, “Just sit wherever you want, hon. Coffee?”

“Yeah. A gallon or so,” Brigit answered without looking.

Then she slid into a booth along the front, her eyes still on the motel across the street.

A filled coffee mug clunked down in front of her. “Are you the wife, or the P.I. working for the wife?” the waitress asked.

Brigit darted a glance the other woman's way and got stuck. She'd expected the clichéd red or blond beehive with pencils sticking out. Instead, she saw a careworn face, silver-gray curls and a smoker's wrinkled upper lip. “I'm sorry?”

“You're watching that
mo
-tel like it's gonna get up and run off if you turn your head. You got a husband having a fling behind your back?”

“Oh.” She got it now. “No, no husband.” She showed off a bare ring finger. “Just a friend I'm going to, uh…surprise.”

“Uh-huh. You want food?”

“Something fast. What's ready?”

“French toast can be on your plate in ten minutes.”

“Make it five and I'll double your tip.”

“Deal.”

Four minutes later Brigit was wolfing down a stack of syrup-drenched, piping hot, buttery French toast that was actually pretty damned good.

She slugged down the coffee, getting up and digging in her pockets for cash.

“The breakfast is five bucks honey,” the woman called from behind the counter. “And here's a coffee to go, on me.” She slid a capped, extra-large cup across the counter.

“Thanks. I'm grateful.” Tossing two fives onto the counter, Brigit grabbed the cup and turned. She needed the caffeine boost. She was blocking her presence from Utana as thoroughly as she could, mentally maintaining an invisible and impenetrable shield around her aura. It was exhausting, and yet vital.

The men were still in the motel room. What the hell were they doing in there?

She left the diner, cup in hand, and glanced up and down the winding road. The motel was covered in white clapboard siding, with brick-red trim, shutters and doors. Each door bore a metallic, gold-toned number. A sidewalk ran along the front, and the semicircular strip of blacktopped parking had room for one vehicle per door.

A smaller, square detached structure bore a sign that said Office.

Behind it, there was a big empty rolling field full of brambles, briars and weeds. And that, she supposed, was where she was going to have to go. Sighing in resignation, she headed up the road until she rounded a bend and was out of sight. Then she jumped the ditch and jogged far enough into the giant weed patch to be invisible, and from there she began making her way back toward the motel.

She emerged from the weeds directly behind it and began counting the windows, trying to match them up with the doors in the front. When she got to the one she thought went with Room 6, she crept closer.

The window was a little too high for her, but she located a loose cinder block beneath the oblong fuel tank in the back, dragged it closer and stood on it. She took a quick peek inside, then ducked down, blinking in shock.

Her eyes had registered the following: Big. Male. Naked. Wet. And effin' ripped. The makeshift toga
had been hiding a chest that made her heart beat faster and a backside that made her knees go weak. Damn.

Drawing a breath, she closed her eyes slowly, then opened them again and peered through the slightly fogged glass one more time.