Edge of Twilight (13 page)

She shrugged. “So I was the best you've ever had, huh?”

“Everyone's the best one at that particular moment, Alby. Don't go reading too much into it.”

“Don't worry, I won't.”

He studied her face for a long while. She didn't hold his gaze, though, as they walked along the shore. Instead she let hers fall and found herself studying his chest again. He had a great chest. Not huge, not bulky, but every muscle clear and hard beneath the taut, pale skin. He could have been a sculpture. She thought vaguely that it ought to be illegal to cover it up, ever.

Finally she looked up. “We're going the wrong way, if I'm still walking you home,” she said.

“You're not. I'm walking you home.” He stopped looking at her, sighed and slid an arm around her shoulders.

“Don't tell me you're getting protective instincts just because we had sex?”

He made a sound of disbelief. “Hell no. I never wanted you to walk me home in the first place. Just wanted to get you alone on the beach so I could make my move.”

“I see.” She glanced out at the paling sky. “You going to have time to get back home?”

“Have you seen my speed?”

“Yeah, just a few minutes ago on the beach.”

His head swung around fast, eyes wide, until he saw her smiling. Still he said, “Is that a complaint?”

She lowered her head, put a palm on his chest and slid it slowly over his luscious pecs. “I enjoyed every second of it, Edge.”

“But next time you'd like to go slower.” He put a hand over hers on his chest, so she had to stop moving it around. She wondered why. He licked his lips, looked past her. “We're here.”

All too soon, she thought. She turned, saw the house behind her, sighed and faced him again.

“I should go,” he said.

“So go, then.”

He started to turn away.

“Bye, Edge. Have a good rest.”

He stopped moving and stood there, then turned halfway around, and she thought he was arguing with himself. Finally, he sighed, swore under his breath and faced her again, only to wrap her in a fierce embrace. He took her mouth deeply, thoroughly, held her entire body so tightly to his own she wondered why they didn't meld. And she thought she felt him shiver.

When he let her go, he turned without a word and vanished. She knew he hadn't disappeared. It had only been a burst of speed.

She licked her lips, lowered her head, wondered why every cell in her body tingled and sang. She felt more alive than she had ever felt. Ever. Because of him?

No, she told herself. Not because of him. Because she'd experienced something she'd never experienced before, and it had been great. Better than great.

She couldn't let this feeling be because of him. She couldn't let herself fall for him, because he'd made it very clear to her that that would be a mistake. And because she believed him.

She'd dreamed of him. In the dream, he'd been dark, tortured, frightening. He'd given her something, something that terrified her. Death. What did it mean? That damned dream, what could it possibly mean?

She had to find out. And she had to be careful.

She walked along the beach, found a place to sit, with a boulder at her back and sank into the sand, drawing her knees to her chest. She watched the waves rolling slowly over the shore. Watched the deep indigo color of the sea slowly change to purple. The upper curve of the sun licked at the sky, painting the streaks of cloud above it in fiery red, neon orange, lemon-yellow.

“Beautiful thing, the sunrise.”

She didn't take her eyes away from the spectacular sight when she heard Willem's voice or when he sank into the sand beside her. “I think people like us probably appreciate it more than most.”

“I imagine we do. Being so intimately close to those who can never see it themselves.”

“It's odd, isn't it? The very thing that ensures life can exist on earth means death to vampires.”

“Mmm. Maybe someday we'll find a way around that.”

She sighed, turning to study Will. He didn't look well, she thought. Paler than usual, and there were dark circles under his eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“Not great, but that's between us.”

She nodded. “You can trust me.”

“I know. I hope you know you can trust
me,
too.”

“I do.” She clasped his hand, leaning closer, so her shoulder pressed to his.

“Amber, Morgan managed to find the source of those Internet posts.”

She lifted her head. “That's progress. So who sent them?”

He licked his lips. “We don't know who. But they were posted from a computer in the office of a local gym.”

Amber's heart slowly formed a thin layer of ice.

“Salem Fitness Center,” he said. “And the posts were sent after hours, sometime in the dead of night. We checked the police blotter in the local paper, found they'd reported a break-in that same night. A few pieces of equipment are missing.”

She lowered her head very slowly. “Thanks for telling me.”

He didn't say anything for a moment. Then, “Do you think it was Edge?”

She shrugged, knowing even that motion of uncertainty was a bald-faced lie. She knew it was Edge. He was using her—apparently as bait to lure Stiles. But why?

“Amber, I don't know this guy. What I've seen of him, I don't find particularly endearing, but…things aren't always what they seem.”

She lifted her head, searching Willem's eyes.

“When I first met ‘Fina, I thought I knew what she was. Bloodthirsty, cold-hearted, ruthless. I was wrong. There might be more to this Edge fellow than he's letting you see.”

“I had the same notion myself.”

“We might know a little more about him soon, at any rate.”

“How?”

Will sighed. It seemed to Amber that talking was leaving him short of breath. And she thought he might be cold, as well. She rose to her feet, extending a hand to him. He pretended not to see it there and got up on his own, using the good leg and walking stick more than the bad one. Stubborn man.

They turned together, began walking back to the house. His limp seemed more pronounced than it had been earlier. “Dante said he mentioned the name of his sire last night.”

“Yes. O'Roark. I think it's someone Dante knows.”

“Someone Dante sired,” Will told her.

She blinked in shock. “You're kidding me.”

He shook his head. “He hasn't seen the man in centuries. Traveled back to Ireland several years ago hoping to renew the acquaintance, but it never happened.”

She smiled a little. “Dante took an instant dislike to Edge. It's almost funny that it turns out they're related.”

Will rolled his eyes. “I suppose, in vampiric terms,
they are.” Then he joined her in the smile, though his seemed halfhearted. “Serves Dante right. He's always been a little too full of himself, in my opinion.”

“You just haven't forgiven him for hurting Sarafina all those years ago.”

He shrugged, pausing at the bottom of the back steps, and she thought he was catching his breath.

“God, Will, it's worse than you've been letting anyone know.”

He lifted his head. “Yeah. But keep that to yourself.”

“You know I will, but how are you managing to hide it? Especially from ‘Fina?”

“Hell, kid, I've learned a few things about shielding my thoughts from the graveyard shift.”

She smiled. “How bad is it? Be honest with me, Will.”

He pursed his lips, lowered his eyes. “I've been through worse.”

“You've been through torture, so that's not really saying much.”

He sighed and climbed the three steps to the deck, then crossed it. “It's not so much the pain—that comes and goes, and right now it's absent—it's this damned exhaustion. I can't stand being this weak.”

“Maybe he did us a favor, posting that information on the Internet,” she said softly. “He?”

She shot him a glance. “Whoever it was, he had to be male. Women just aren't that obvious.”

He knew perfectly well she thought it was Edge, but he wasn't going to call her on it. “Typical reverse sexism.”

She got to the door before him, reached to pull it open, then waited while he walked through. “You ready to get some sleep?” she asked him.

He nodded. “You?”

“Yeah, soon as I shower.”

He closed and locked the door, flicked a button. “We've got an alarm system and it's armed. If anyone comes near the place, you'll hear bells and whistles. You come straight to me if you hear anything like that. All right?”

She nodded as she walked beside him up the stairs to the second floor, and they stopped outside the master bedroom. “All right.”

“I mean it. I'm sick, not dead. I can still shoot straight, and my forty-five will stop an elephant in its tracks.”

“I have
got
to get myself one of those.”

He chucked her on the chin. “I'm well aware you're not without skills of your own, kid. But if Stiles and his goons come for you and you don't let me help fend 'em off, I'm gonna be mad as hell.”

Secretly, she thought that if Stiles and his goons came for her, the goons would wind up dead or running for their lives, and Stiles would end up
her
prisoner for a change.

“Have a good sleep,” she told Will.

“You, too.”

She didn't, though. She had the dream again. The man, the beautiful man, with a face like an archangel, all dressed in black, came to her again, appearing from within a thick swirl of mist. He had a name now, her dark angel. Edge. And again he held out the box. Ornate, ancient looking, not a single inch of its rich dark wood face was smooth. All of it was carved, engraved, embellished, with swirls and symbols and shapes. She thought she saw eyes tooled into the wood. He offered it to her yet again.

As before, she told herself no. Don't take it. Don't touch it. Don't look inside.

But this time she could not stop her dream self from accepting the gift. She reached out, her hands trembling, sweat beading on her forehead, as her palms pressed to the sides of the box, and, slowly, she lowered her gaze.

She stared inside, and this time…she saw what was there.

Amber shrieked in terror. She sat up in the bed, coming wide-awake, and still screaming until she forced her jaws closed.

Her bedroom door burst open. Will stood there, wide-eyed, a handgun so big she was surprised he could heft it clasped in his hands.

“What is it?” he shouted. “What's wrong, Amber?”

She lowered her head, shaking it side to side, racking her brain, her memory. But the dream was gone. Whatever she'd seen, whatever had caused her terror, was gone like the morning mist when the sun comes out. What the hell had she seen in that box in her dream that had made her blood run ice cold and her mind whirl in shock and denial?

“My God,” she whispered. “Nothing could be that bad. Could it?”

A
mber refused to acknowledge the ache in her heart when she returned to the abandoned church just before sundown. The anger, that was all right. Acceptable. He'd used her, leaked her presence in Salem to the entire Internet-using public, just to lure Stiles here. For what purpose, she could only guess. He must have a grudge against the vampire hunter, like so many of his kind. It didn't matter why. And it didn't matter that she would have done the same thing if she'd thought of it first. It only mattered that Edge had put her life at risk to satisfy his hunger for vengeance.

Well, he wasn't going to get away with it. She would call him on it tonight. Tell him she knew damned well what he'd done. Put him on notice that he wasn't to harm one piece of twisted pink scar tissue on Stiles's face until she got the information she needed from the man.

After that, she could care less.

Dammit, why did it hurt so much? She didn't give a damn about Edge. She wouldn't be stupid enough to have any feelings for a man like him. Any emotional feelings, at least. She couldn't help her physical feelings.

Her insides turned wet and warm when she thought
about that, so she banished the memory as she climbed through the window of the church. Landing on the floor, she brushed off her hands, and eyed the punching bag that hung from a rafter. Salem Fitness Center was printed on its side.

“Bastard,” she said, punctuating the word with a jab to the bag. It felt good, hitting the bag, imagining it as his face. His chiseled, sharp face. With those cheekbones and that damnable sexy dimple. She hit it again. “You used me, you son of a—” Right hook to the temple, rattling that peroxide blond head. Uppercut, splitting those full, sexy lips. “Probably never even wanted me. Not really.” She delivered a roundhouse blow, then a series of kicks that she thought would be rib breakers for sure. “It was all just a game, wasn't it, Edge?” The final blow should have taken off his head.

It didn't. Instead it tore the bag from its eye-ring. The weighted sack flew a couple of yards and hit the floor, cracking several floorboards and sending up a dust cloud.

She pursed her lips, sucking in a few breaths, enjoying the surge of blood in her veins and the release of her anger. Then she turned, noted the spreading darkness and, for the first time, the lack of brick-a-brack on the makeshift altar in the front.

Her brows drew together. She opened her senses but felt no hint of Edge nearby. His presence made her skin tingle; there would have been no mistaking it. “Edge?”

But she didn't need to wait, or listen to the echoing answer of her own voice. She knew. He wasn't there. He was gone.

 

Edge opened his eyes and stared up at the wooden ribs curving downward, around either side of him. For a
moment the notion that he'd been swallowed by a large fish amused him with its absurdity, and then his head cleared and he remembered. His head was pillowed by his freshly packed duffel bag, and his back by the sand and grass surface where beach gave way to meadow. He'd arrived back at the church with enough time to gather his things and head out, but he'd had to settle for the first shelter he'd found, which turned out to be an overturned rowboat. He'd hauled the thing inland far enough to be sure the tide wouldn't reach him and scrambled underneath for the night.

It was a good enough shelter. No sun made it through. And as he lifted one side now, he saw that the sun was long gone. He flung the boat over, sat up, ran his hands through his hair and instantly thought of the one thing he'd decided not to think of, the same thing he'd gone to sleep thinking of. Amber Lily Bryant.

By now, he thought, she probably had a pretty good idea of what he'd been up to, that he'd been the one to send the posts to the ‘net, tipping off any who cared to know that she was in Salem.

Hell, he probably shouldn't have done that. And no doubt she was mad as hell about it. But it wasn't as if he intended to let the guy within a mile of her. She wasn't at risk. He wouldn't let her be at risk. He would nab Stiles long before Amber was in any danger.

And besides, this would be over soon. Stiles was on his way. Edge felt it right to his bones. He was making his way north, on U.S. 1., drawing closer with every tick of the clock. Odd he would take the scenic route, rather than the faster one, but Edge assumed the butcher had his reasons. The knowledge had come to him during his rest, clearly, sharply. He didn't question it. He'd been prepared to lurk around Salem, avoiding Alby and her expressive,
soulful eyes for as long as necessary. It was just as well it would be over with soon.

He slung the duffel over his shoulder and began hiking into town. He didn't exert his preternatural speed. He didn't need to, he had time, and in fact, he was enjoying the walk, the night, the sea air.

In an hour, he was south of Salem, walking along the shoulder of the road, waiting for Stiles to show. It was going to be great, killing the bastard at last. He intended to make sure the son of a bitch stayed dead this time, even if it meant cutting him to bits and burning the pieces. He would relish every second of it.

Headlights came, grew brighter, passed by. He sent his awareness into each vehicle, until, eventually, he felt the approach of the one he'd been waiting for.

Stiles. He was sitting in the back seat, passenger side. Edge focused on him, homing in on his mind. He could see the backs of the heads of two men in the front seat. He could hear the strains of a baritone, booming out in Italian, and realized it came from a set of headphones. He felt the rub of a waistband slightly too snug, and the protests of muscles too long in the same position.

He waited, letting the headlights come closer, and then he stepped out into the center of the road.

The car didn't slow. Edge didn't move. He could play chicken with the best of them.

The driver stepped down harder on the accelerator, and Stiles yanked the headphones off and leaned forward. Shit. They were going to hit him. Edge braced himself for the impact, set his feet and waited. He wouldn't give easily, and that car was going to end up smoking in the ditch, at the very least.

It came faster, closing the distance between them.

He set his jaw.

And Alby stepped in front of him.

Even as his shocked mind registered her presence and his hands reached up to push her out of the path of danger, she set her feet and flung up her hands as if shooing a fly. Her hair blew behind her, tickling his face, but he saw the car all the same. Its tires skidded sideways, leaving black streaks of rubber on the pavement, and then it flipped up onto its side. Metal scraped the blacktop, and showers of sparks arched. Edge flung his arms up in front of his face automatically. But Alby still stood where she was, not moving, just watching until the car came to a stop in the dust on the side of the road.

She turned slowly.

Edge caught his breath. Her eyes glowed, blue-black, as if backlit from within.

But even as he searched them, the light faded. He found the ability to speak, said, “Jesus, Alby, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Came to tell you to go to hell,” she said. “The timing was just good luck.”

Turning, she started forward, toward the car.

Edge gripped her arm, tugged her around to face him. “How did you find me?”

She only smiled slowly and pulled free again.

Again he grabbed her, spun her around. “Dammit, Alby, get out of here. He'll hurt you if he can.”

“Oh, and protecting me is right on top of your list of priorities, right, Edge? Just like making love to me was?”

“Alby—”

She flung her hand at him, and he thought she meant to backhand him across the face. But it was considerably more than that. While she never touched him, her energy did. He felt the impact like a blast of furnace-hot wind
that lifted him off his feet and sent him flying backward a good ten yards.

When he landed, the breath was driven out of him. He lifted his head, shook it clear and focused on the woman. God, she was raging. He felt it blasting from her in waves. She faced the car, jerked her head upward, then down, an exaggerated nod. The car followed the motion, rocking back down, so all four tires were on the pavement again. She swung her head to the left, and the front doors popped open. She pointed at the car, flicked her wrist upward, and the driver was yanked out as if by an invisible giant. He rolled and tumbled thirty feet along the road. She repeated the gesture and the other man was flung from the passenger side.

She got behind the wheel, slammed the door.

Edge dragged himself to his feet. He moved into the road, aware that Stiles was in that car with Amber, probably in the back seat. Jesus, what if he hurt her? What if he…?

She gunned the engine, and the tires spun, spitting dirt and rocks up behind them as the car fishtailed its way back onto the road.

Edge moved faster, putting himself right in her path.

And he heard her shout at him mentally,
Move it!

You'll have to go through me.

Have it your way.

She gunned it, and she hit him. The pain exploded from his hipbone, where the bumper drove into him, to his head, when it connected with the pavement. He felt his skull split and was blinded by pain.

Jesus! He couldn't believe she'd actually hit him. Oh, God, it hurt!

He struggled to get upright, and that was when he felt the moisture, the blood oozing from the gaping wound.
Dammit. It flowed too fast, and though he pressed his hand to the wound to stanch the flow, he knew it wasn't going to do him much good. He sat up, struggled to his feet, pressing his hand to his head and watching through the flowing blood as Amber drove by. And then his knees gave out, and he sank to the ground.

 

“Dammit to hell,” she muttered, easing the car along the road, keeping her focus divided between the unconscious man in the back seat and Edge. “Don't do this to me again,” she asked him. “It's an act, it's just an act. Damn you, Edge.”

But she saw the blood oozing from between his fingers where they splayed against his head, and she felt the pain shooting like an electric current through his limbs. And beyond him, she saw Stiles's two henchmen stirring.

As Edge's eyes rolled back and he sank to the ground, she stopped the car. She couldn't leave him there. Not like that.

Hell. Twisting in her seat, she leaned over to examine Stiles. He was leaning sideways, seat belt on, body limp, not a mark on him.

Faking?

Beside him, a black bag, like a doctor might carry, rested on the seat. She smiled slowly, yanked it into the front with her and opened it up. It was jam packed with fun little toys. Vials of drugs, tranquilizer guns, handcuffs with keys taped to the chain, leg irons and even a snub-nosed .38 and a miniature first-aid kit. She took out the handcuffs, put one of them on his wrist and jerked him forward until she could snap the other around the steering wheel. Then she put the keys in her pocket and got out, taking the bag with her.

“Edge?”

She moved closer to him, certain he was faking her out yet again. Damn him, using her to lure Stiles here and then trying to beat her to the bastard.

She knelt down on the pavement, where he'd collapsed, and she touched him.

He moaned a little.

“Edge?” She rolled him onto his back and saw the blood pumping from the cut in his head. “Dammit, why the hell didn't you move?”

His eyes didn't open. But his lips moved. In a bare whisper he said, “Didn't think you'd really hit me.”

“You deserved worse.”

“Mmm. True enough.”

She dug the first-aid kit out of the black bag and rummaged inside. It was almost useless, but she did locate a roll of gauze and adhesive tape. She tore off strips of the tape, then pinched the gaping cut together and applied them. He winced, and she knew that pain in him was magnified. Vampires felt it like no one else. And she ached for him, even though she hated him at that moment. She wouldn't have stopped at all, if not for the fact that he would have bled out before dawn.

When she finished her work, the bleeding seemed to stop. She added some gauze over the wound, holding it there with more tape.

“You'll be all right now,” she said. “I have to go.”

“No.” He gripped her arm, even as she rose from his side. “Jesus, Alby, you can't leave me here. I'm weak as a kitten.”

“You'll last until daybreak. Just find some shelter and then you'll heal.”

“I won't last an hour. Look around you, woman.”

She did. The two henchmen were up now, moving cautiously nearer, one from either direction.

“Go away!” she ordered, and with a snap of her wrists, they were both flung backward.

Edge lay there, not moving. She leaned over him, gripping his shoulders. “Come on, get up, I'll put you somewhere safe.”

“I'll die if you leave me,” he told her.

“You're the best liar I've ever met.”

“I never lied to you. I'm not now.”

“And I'm supposed to believe that?”

He closed his eyes, hesitated, opened them again, and when he did, he opened his mind to her, let her see and hear and feel inside him.
I need you, Alby. Don't leave me to die. Take me with you, wherever the hell you're going.

She stared down at him. As she did, a single strand of blood made its way from beneath the bandage on his head to trickle slowly down his cheek. “Damn you for this.” She tugged him up into a sitting position, then pulled his arm over her shoulders and got upright, taking him with her.

“Thanks,” he muttered, grunting the word as she hauled him to the car. She opened the front passenger door without touching it and slung him into the seat. Then she went around to the other side to open her own door. She unlocked the handcuff from the steering wheel, then leaning into the back seat, knocked Stiles onto the seat facedown, pulled his hands behind his back and snapped the cuff around the free wrist to keep them there.