Twilight Fulfilled (3 page)

As he looked at the death and mutilation around him, he thought of the healing power he had taken from James of the Vahmpeers. He had not yet attempted to use it, but he had no illusions that it would be effective on bits and pieces of men. He would first have to sort them, leaving none out, nor mixing any together. Such a task would be impossible, and would take days—weeks, perhaps—even to attempt. No, it was of no use. Were they not meant to die this day, they would not have placed themselves in his path. The higher being knew far more than did the earthly one. Their fate had been sealed; there was no undoing it.

He picked his way among the limbs and gore, amid the tiny fires dancing from their motor-driven conveyances, and the smoke spiraling all around him. He saw more humans, watching from a safe distance, and he felt only fear and terror coming from them—no attack. Pausing, Utana bent low to scoop up a dead man's weapon. And as he held it, he closed his eyes briefly and absorbed its vibration through his palms. It took only seconds for him to understand how the weapon worked, how to use
it, what it did. And so he gathered up a few more before moving on.

More soldiers would come after him. No army would let so many deaths go unavenged. He had not wanted war with the humans, but it seemed inevitable now.

His bare feet were cold as they slapped down on the wet stonelike substance with which modern man had apparently paved the world. The rain was lighter now. He would find clothing and shelter, a base of operations from which to work. The vahmpeers had moved to somewhere not far from this place. But they would know of his nearness now. Word of his deeds this night would surely spread. And then they would flee. If he hoped to catch up to them, to wipe them from existence, he had to find them before they did.

Washington, D.C.

“You can go in now, Senator,” the curly haired receptionist said.

Marlene MacBride rose from the vinyl chair she'd been warming for the past twenty minutes, smoothed her pencil-slim skirt over her thighs and strode to the door. She was staring at the plaque that adorned it. Special Agent Nash Gravenham-Bail. As she lifted a hand to tap before entering, the door swung open, and she glimpsed a broad torso and a large file box coming toward her.

The box bumped her chest before she had a chance to move out of the way. She automatically gripped it, and the man behind it spoke.

“Senator MacBride. Sorry about the wait, but I think you'll find everything you need in here. Enough to get you started, at least.”

Marlene lifted her stunned eyes from the box to the face of the man shoving it at her. It was the scar that caught her attention, as she would guess it did most people's upon meeting this man for the first time. It was a thin pink line, raised a bit, that began at the outside corner of his left eye and angled across his cheek to the center of his chin.

“Line of duty,” he said. “Besides, it's intimidating. That's a bonus in my line of work.”

She shifted her focus from his scar to his eyes. Wet cement, they were. “Mr. Gravenham-Bail?”

“It's a mouthful, I know,” he said. “I still cuss my parents out on a daily basis for the hyphenated name thing. I mean, really, just pick one already. Make a decision.”

She nodded.

“Easier if you just call me Nash.”

“Mmm.” He still hadn't let her into his office. She was standing in the doorway, holding a box that was getting heavier by the minute, and getting absolutely nowhere with him. “Look, Nash, I was expecting a meeting with you. So you could brief me on all this.”

“Oh, really? I thought you'd want documents. Files.”

“Well, those, too, but—”

“Look if you want a meeting, we'll set one up. Week after next?”

“I'm afraid that—”

“Barbara,” he called, and started moving forward. Marlene had to either back up or let him walk right into her. He backed her into the reception area, pulling his office door closed behind him. “Barbara, schedule me a sit-down with the senator, here, for the next free afternoon I have. A full hour. And, uh, get someone to help her down with this file box, will you?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Nice meeting you, Senator MacBride. I'll see you in two weeks.”

He extended a hand to shake, looked sheepishly at the box that was occupying both of hers, then turned and was back in his office, door closed, before she could say boo. Hell, this wasn't going well at all.

 

Nash closed his office door, counted to sixty and picked up the phone. “Babs, she gone yet?”

“The elevator doors just closed on her, sir.”

“Great. Get me a flight to Maine. Bangor, or as close to there as possible.”

“Right away, sir.”

Nash needed to get his hands on this resurrected monster, get him under control. He would not rest until every last vampire was obliterated. If even one remained, they would make others. Like damn lice. They were parasites. You had to pick 'em clean to end the infestation. And you had better get their eggs, too, unless you wanted to start the process all over again. In this case, that meant the so-called Chosen. Humans with the rare antigen in their blood that made them susceptible to the disease the Undead had dubbed the Dark Gift. It wasn't a gift. It was a freaking mutation. The only humans who could become vampires were the carriers of the Belladonna Antigen, so they would have to be eliminated, too. As soon as they'd served their purpose.

The Dymphna Project would take care of that. And by the time pesky Senator MacBride waded through the paperwork mountain he'd handed her, it would all be over.

But in order for his plan to work, he needed to find this Utanapishtim, this madman from another age, another world. He had to win the man's trust, so he could wield him like the weapon Nash intended him to be.

And then, when the war was over and humans were victorious, he would destroy the so-called immortal last of all, and end the age of the vampires for all time.

He was going to save mankind from the scourge of the Undead. And no junior senator from Nebraska was going to get into his way. No matter how good she looked in a skirt.

St. Dymphna Psychiatric Hospital
Mount Bliss, Virginia

Roxanne was the nurse on check-in duty on the day the odd little girl and her mother arrived at St. Dymphna.

And as it turned out, that was a damned good thing. Then again, she'd never believed in coincidence.

Roxy had been a friend to the vampires all her life. And her life was a long one. Longer than most of the folks who carried the Belladonna Antigen in their blood. They were known as the Chosen, and word was, they didn't live to see forty.

She'd seen a hell of a lot more than forty, but she wouldn't admit how much more. Not under torture. Besides, age was just a number.

Roxy had no desire to become a vampire. But she damn well wasn't going to stand by and watch them get wiped out of existence, either. Her vamp friends had been good to her. Saved her wrinkle-free hide more than once.

So when she got notification from Uncle Sam that she was to report to some out-of-commission loony bin with all the other Chosen, to be protected
from vampire attack, she knew it was time to take action.

Vampires didn't prey on the Chosen. They were like spooky-ass guardian angels to them. Couldn't help themselves. One of her kind got into trouble, one of their kind showed up to bail them out. Usually did a little oogly-boogly mind shit on the way out, just to erase the memory and keep their cover intact.

Vamps weren't the only ones who could play oogly-boogly mind games.

Roxy had made herself disappear. As far as the government knew, she was on the run, avoiding compliance with their summons, while in truth she was right under their noses, with a false ID and a freshly minted nursing license, working as an R.N. at St. Dymphna's. Forged paperwork, a little witchcraft—yeah, she was a card-carrying spell-caster—and bam, she was hired.

And she was damned glad to be in the place, too, that day when she greeted the newest guests, Jane and Melinda Hubbard, at the front door.

The mom and daughter looked like two photos of the same person taken twenty years apart. And they looked scared, too.

“Hey, now. There's no call to look like that,” Roxy said. “Know why?”

Melinda stared at her, huge blue eyes seeing
right through her, she thought. “Why?” the little girl asked.

Hell, the kid's gaze was so intense it sent a little shiver up Roxy's spine. But she shook it off and smiled. “Because
I'm
here. And I'm going to give you my personal promise that nothing bad will happen to you while you're here. You're gonna be my special friends. And no one messes with Roxy's friends. Okay?”

Jane smiled a little, hugging her daughter closer.

“She's like me, Mommy,” Melinda said softly.

Roxy felt her smile die as Jane shot her a look. Quickly Roxy glanced around to make sure no one else had heard, and then she knelt down to put herself at eye level with the little girl. “I
am
like you,” she whispered. “But that has to be our little secret, okay? No one else can know.”

“Why?”

Roxy swallowed hard. She had not intended to tell these people—nor any of the other captives—who or what she was. It was too dangerous. Now she had a seven-year-old apparent psychic to contend with.

Roxy bent closer. “I might get into trouble if you tell. Okay, honey? You know how to keep a secret, don't you?”

“Uh-huh.” Melinda eyed Roxy up and down. “Okay,” she said. “I won't tell.” Then looking up at her mother, she said, “She's good.”

Roxy's brows went up. There was definitely more to this little girl than the antigen they shared. Speaking at a more normal volume, she said, “I'm gonna find you guys the nicest room in this place. Come on with me now. We're all up on the fourth floor.”

As they headed for the elevators, Jane leaned in close. “What's going on around here, Roxy?”

Roxy glanced up and to the right, where the wall met the ceiling, meaning in her eyes. And she knew when Jane followed her gaze and spotted the camera mounted there. “Eyes and ears, hon,” she whispered, a big, fake smile on her face. “Everywhere.”

Jane nodded and lowered her head, face averted from the camera. “I'm just trying to find out if it's safe here for my daughter.”

“Should have done that before you brought her here,” Roxy said.

“Then we're leaving.” Jane started to turn away toward the big entry door.

Roxy clasped her arm, and squeezed hard enough to get her attention and stop her in her tracks. “They won't let you leave. You didn't notice the armed guards walking the perimeter? The electric fence around this entire place? You're here now. And you'll have to stay here.”

“But—”

“No buts. No choice.” The elevator doors slid
open as Roxy released the woman's arm but continued to hold her eyes. Her false smile had vanished, and she realized it and pasted it back on again. “I'll do everything I can to protect you both. And when the time is right, I'll get you out of here.”

“That's why you're keeping your…condition…secret?”

Roxy nodded as she hustled them into the elevator. “You want the zoo cages left unlocked, best have a monkey posing as a zookeeper, don't you think? Now come on. You blow my cover, we're all done for. And for heaven's sake, smile. You've gotta look like you're glad to be here. All right?”

“All right.”

They stepped inside, all three of them, and the elevator doors slid closed. As they rode upward, Roxy added, in a very soft whisper, “Don't let them know she's different. That would be…bad.”

The mother shifted her blue eyes to the little girl, who stood between the two adults, her knapsack on her back, a teddy bear peeking from the top. Tears shimmered in Jane's eyes, but she blinked them away and tightened her grip on her daughter's tiny hand.

Bangor, Maine

B
rigit smelled death in the air. Death, grief, violence. And something more. She was standing above a demolished street in downtown Bangor, Maine. There was a taste to the night, a scent and a feeling. It smelled this way after lightning struck. After an electrical transformer had blown up, or after a breaker box had short-circuited.

And after she had used her power to blow something to bits.

She would have known what had happened here simply by that smell, even if she hadn't seen the news reports with her own eyes.

The streets were blocked off. Cops wearing black armbands in honor of their dead stood sentry at every possible access point. But they hadn't covered the rooftops. Local law enforcement agen
cies had a lot to learn about the Undead—and their mongrel kin.

Brigit stood on the roof of a hardware store, looking down at the mayhem. Burned-out vehicles, scattered debris. There were still body parts here and there, missed by the EMTs and the crews from the coroner's office, no matter how thorough they thought they had been. She could smell them. Charred meat had a distinctive aroma, and charred human meat had one all its own. It wasn't pleasant.

Her nose wrinkled, and she averted her face, closing her eyes against the onslaught of remembered images. But she couldn't stop the nightmarish scene from playing out in her mind just as it had so recently played out for real on the streets below her. She was too close, her mind too open. She saw the entire encounter play out in her mind's eye. Utana big and so powerful, but more utterly alone than any man had ever been, cold, wet and shivering in the delivery truck, devouring the stolen food with relish. She felt his awareness of being surrounded, his confusion as to why the humans would want to harm him when his goal was the same as theirs. To exterminate the vampires.

She felt his anger, and she felt, too, his reluctance to do what he had to do—followed slowly by his bitter acceptance of it. He believed the humans had left him no other choice. He believed it completely.

She pressed a hand to her forehead, willing the
images away, but they played out all the same. The beam blasting forth from Utana's eyes. The men—innocent men—being blown literally to pieces. And despite the horror of it, Brigit found herself compelled to examine the images more closely. How had he widened out the beam that way? She couldn't do that. She had to blow up one thing at a time. How had he managed to broaden its scope to include a wide range of targets all at once? She'd never been able to achieve such a thing.

Hell, if he was more powerful than she was…

No, she wouldn't think that way. He might be stronger, but she was smarter, faster, more at home in the here and now. Not to mention that she was sane. Oh, she supposed there were some who would debate that, given her hair-trigger temper. But she was at least saner than he was, this man who'd been buried alive for more than fifty centuries.

It wasn't his fault he was out of his freaking mind, she thought. But that thought, too, she shoved aside.

She started to turn, intending to track him down by following the essence he left in his wake, but then she paused, brought to halt by the vision still unfolding in her head.

Utana himself, his wet bedsheet toga dragging the ground, his long black hair clinging to his powerful shoulders and rain-damp chest, climbing down from the truck and walking slowly among the
dead. She felt the waves of regret washing over him with so much force that they left him weak. She felt the tears burning in his eyes. And there were, inexplicably, answering tears welling up in her own.

And then, from directly behind her, he said, “Do you see? The humans—they gave me no choice.”

Her head came up fast, chills racing up her spine at his presence. How? How had he snuck up on her like that? Why hadn't she felt his approach as she would feel the approach of anyone—mortal or vampire? Had he learned to block his vibrations from others? And at such close range? Impossible.

She turned to face him, trying to erase any hint of fear from her expression. Her eyes were level with his massive chest, and she had to tip her head back to focus on his face.

He met her eyes, and his flashed with recognition. “Brigit. The sister of James.”

“Yes.”

He lowered his head, perhaps unable to hold her gaze, and she sensed he might be ashamed of what he had done. “You are sent for to kill me?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me of your brother and his Lucy. Are they…?”

“They're fine.”

Unmistakable and unspeakable regret flashed in the depths of his gleaming jet-black eyes. “I wish not to harm you, sister of James.”

“Don't worry, Utana. You won't.”

He blinked twice, a frown appearing between his brows. But as he lifted his head and met her eyes again, she saw something more there. A hint of a spark. Perhaps he was rising to the challenge.

“I wish there were another way,” she said. “I hate having to do this to you.”

He almost smiled as he repeated her own words back to her. “Don't worry, Brigit. You won't.” And then his teeth bared in a full-on grin. He was very pleased with himself, no doubt at his flawless repetition, right down to the inflection and tone.

She lifted a hand, palm up, fingers loosely resting against her thumb, as he spun and raced across the rooftop, putting some distance between them. She focused on him, flicked her fingers open and released the powerful, deadly beam from her eyes.

As if he felt it coming, Utana tucked and rolled, dodging the flash of laser like light. The chimney behind him exploded. Bricks flew like enormous pieces of shrapnel, but he blocked them with one arm, even as he turned and fired a beam from his own eyes in her general direction.

Brigit dove out of the way, and Utana's blast of energy blew past her and kept going until it hit a window across the street, shattering it.

Below, the workers cleaning up after the massacre scrambled for cover. People shouted from their crouched positions, looking up and pointing.

From behind a vent fan, Brigit launched another bolt of destructive energy, then raced to the rear of the building. Even as he shot a beam back at her, she jumped, plummeting downward and landing hard in a low crouch that did little to absorb the teeth-jarring impact.

Springing upright again, she ran. Her feet pounded the pavement as she poured on every ounce of human speed she possessed, eager to lead Utana away from anyone who might be harmed in the cross fire. Not that there was any love lost between her and humankind. But her vampire family would frown on unnecessary bloodshed.

Except for Aunt Rhiannon, of course. She would love it.

Brigit dashed down an alley, trying hard to tune out the stench coming from the trash bins as she did. Behind her, she heard Utana land barefoot on the pavement, and an instant later he was hurling power after her like Zeus hurling lightning bolts after an unrepentant sinner, as she zigged and zagged to avoid being blown to bits.

Ducking behind a building, she pressed her back to the brick, panting hard to catch her breath. But not for long. She popped her head out just long enough to return fire, then jerked it back behind the wall again. Once, twice, three times. Each blast of power sucked more vital energy from her. More
life force. More strength. She wondered if it was the same for him.

Peering out from behind the building once more, she didn't see him, so she made a dash for the edge of town.

He followed, no longer firing, just running.

Yes, she thought. Using his power of destruction must drain him, too. And he'd annihilated many already tonight. She had the advantage. Except that she was pretty sure he'd been stronger to begin with.

Running onward, she knew she needed more speed, more force. Though it would rob her of precious energy, she paused to call her vampiric self up to the surface. Her jaw began to pulse and throb as her incisors elongated themselves, and her entire body prickled with newly heightened sensation. And then, fully vamped out, she ran full bore. The preternatural burst of speed would, she knew, make her appear as no more than a blur in the eyes of a human.

And, she hoped, in the eyes of the first immortal, as well.

Miles melted away, but Brigit didn't stop until she stood in a wooded glen. There was a pond. There were trees. A nearly full moon hung low in the sky. It would be dawn soon. Leaning against a tree, she hung her head, caught her breath, let her body return to her more natural state. Her fangs re
tracted. Her skin felt almost numb in comparison to the heightened sensitivity of vampire flesh and nerve.

“I will wait until…you make ready.”

She straightened, spun. And there he stood, tall and straight and barely winded. “God,” she muttered.

“Utana,” he corrected. “You are…powerful warrior. Strong. Smart. I expected not such challenge from one so beautiful.”

“Don't try to distract me with empty flattery, Utana. It won't work.”

He frowned, tipping his head to one side as if trying to understand the meaning of her words. “I ask again—do not make me kill you, woman.”

She met his eyes, then had to look away. They were black as night, deep and full of misery. “You murdered dozens of my people.”

“All my years—as priest, as king, as soldier, as flood survivor, as immortal—all my years, I tell you, never did I kill when I was able to find another way. But—this time, no choice was I given. The will of the Anunaki must be obeyed.”

She felt his heart twisting with his words, as if he were holding back an emotional storm. There was pain in this man, and she hated that she could feel it. She didn't know why, and wished it would go away, so she tried to close her mind to his. “There has to be another way,” she whispered.

“Another way, yes. A living death for me. I want only release, Brigit of the Vahmpeers. Release for the vahmpeers, as well. To release from the curse of living as demons, hated by the gods, forced to exist on the power of mortal blood. It is damnation for them. You cannot see with the wisdom of one as old as I, woman. But I remove your peoples' curse as I remove my own. I wish only to join them in the Land of the Dead, where we will make our peace. I cannot know that blessed release until I obey the will of the gods and destroy the last of the vahmpeers.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Yes, I fear it is so.” He sent a blast, but she felt it coming.

And even as she lunged out of the line of fire, she realized with stunning clarity that she had known he was going to blast her before he had made a move.

That apparent psychic bond she'd been cursing only seconds earlier had enabled her to read him.

She hid behind a fragrant pine, hands braced on its sticky trunk, and she tried not to think before acting. She decided she would attack on impulse, without a plan, while reading his intentions as they formed.

Popping out from behind the tree, she fired and scored a direct hit. The beam slammed the big man in his abdomen, the force of it bending him in two
and launching him backward through the air. He hit a boulder and sank to the ground, only to roll to the side as she sent a second shot.

She ducked as he shot back. Her pine tree cover, five feet behind her by then, blew apart and went crashing to the forest floor, forming a huge barrier between her and Utana. Dashing to another cluster of trees, Brigit shot again, blindly this time, and then she ran on.

It must have looked, from above, as if an invisible giant were stomping across the forest, each step snapping trees as if they were toothpicks.

And yet no further hits were scored. He pursued her, his pain washing over her in waves that were almost as debilitating to her as they must have been to him. God, why did she feel him so powerfully?

He was getting closer. Brigit turned, lifted a hand to fire and felt an enormous force, like gravity times ten, pulling her straight to her knees. She shot all the same, but he sidestepped the blast and walked slowly toward her.

Lifting her head, she watched him approach. She raised her hand, palm up, but for the life of her she could not generate enough energy for more than a slight flash from her eyes. It made a popping sound as it crested in the air between them.

Utana reached her and then sank to his knees, as well, facing her. They knelt there, as close as they
could be without touching. Their eyes met, locked. “I can…fight…no more,” he whispered.

“Neither can I.”

Three panting breaths, and then his hand cupped the back of her head and he brought her face to his, smashing his mouth to hers, kissing her with all he had. Several days' beard brushed soft against her chin, and they tumbled to the ground, limbs entwined, as fire burned in Brigit's veins and she wondered just what the hell had come over her—over him.

Exhaustion won out over passion in the end. Their kiss, though heated, began to cool, as, wrapped up in each other, they sank into an exhausted slumber on the floor of the decimated forest.

 

When Brigit stirred some hours later, the sun was beating down. The birds were singing a riotous chorus.

And Utana was gone.

She got to her feet and stood in silence, absently brushing the leaves and twigs from her clothes, and turning in a slow circle. But he was nowhere near. She didn't feel him anymore.

She relived the battle, her mind replaying every blast she'd sent and every one he'd returned. She walked back through the forest, noting where she'd been standing, running, diving, with the benefit of clear-minded hindsight.

Swallowing hard, she shook her head. He could have had her. At least three different times, she realized, she'd been exposed. An easy target, her back to him. And he'd sent bolts of power, not at her, but at nearby trees, toppling them.

He could have killed her. But he hadn't.

And then she relived that kiss. That earth-shattering, mind-blowing kiss.

“Damn, what am I doing?” She pushed a hand through her hair, and closed her eyes.