Edge of Twilight (18 page)

She talks to her baby as if the baby can hear her and
talk back. And I don't know, maybe it can. She knows it's a girl, she says.

I can't leave here yet. Not yet. Because I think maybe I'm the only one here who's willing to help her and her baby. She begs me to help her. Every single time I see her, she begs me with those eyes of hers. So imploring, so expressive. I try to tell her that I will, that I'll do whatever I can, but of course I can't say it out loud. I hope she understands. I hope she can read my thoughts the way DPI says they can. I hope she knows. I'm staying on here, continuing to work for DPI until that baby's born, and then I'm going to do something to help. Somehow.

She's not a monster. She's a mother. The only monsters here are Fuller and Stiles and the others.

Amber closed her eyes, and her stomach clenched tight. Her mother. That had been her own dear mother, singing her heart out from a prison cell, wondering what would become of her child. And a short while later a mob of vampires had surrounded that building and burned it to the ground. That was where Stiles had gotten his scars.

God, what if she were in the same horrible predicament her mother had been? Alone, imprisoned and unable to be sure she could protect her child?

“But I'm not,” she whispered. “I'm no prisoner, and I'm far from helpless. I have the upper hand here. I say how long I stay. I say when I leave.” Even as the thoughts crossed her mind, she looked toward the door and thought about running.

Then she swallowed hard, faced the computer again. “Besides, I'm not pregnant.” She closed the file and opened the next most recently viewed document.

 

Edge arrived at the barn alone. He didn't know or care whether the other two were following. He had no time to
focus his attention behind him. Only ahead of him. Only on Amber Lily…and that bastard Stiles.

He went to the barn where he'd last seen her, only this time, instead of going inside, he circled the place, moving slowly, his entire mind homed to pick up any trace of her.

“Look at him,” Dante said. “He's like a bloodhound trying to pick up a scent.”

“Mmm,” Donovan agreed. “I read somewhere that bloodhounds on the scent will be so focused, so oblivious to everything else, that they've been known to walk right over cliffs, into canyons, even in front of speeding traffic.”

“Then my analogy fits,” Dante put in. “He's not even aware of our presence.”

“Of course I'm aware of your fucking presence,” Edge said, spinning around. “Now would you shut up so I can concentrate?”

Dante and Donovan exchanged glances. “There might be a better way, son,” Donovan said softly.

Edge turned very slowly, pinned the man with his gaze. “Son? You're my sire, not my father.”

“Is there really a difference?”

Edge stared so intently he thought the other man should have burst into flames. But apparently there was still only one in existence who could commit such a feat. A vampire named Damian—the first, according to legend. As for Edge's efforts, Donovan's hair didn't even begin to smolder.

“Dante has something for you, Edge,” Donovan said.

Edge shot a look at Dante. “And I suppose you want me to address you as ‘Gramps'?”

“Hardly,” Dante said, seeming not the least bit amused. Still, he tugged a packet of papers, all stapled together,
from the pocket of his black trench coat. “I went through the files of the old DPI. They had what were known as safe houses all over the country. Ordinary-looking homes, in ordinary neighborhoods, fitted with labs, computers and cells for the occasional prisoner.”

“So?”

“So I got the full list. The Northeast Region begins on page three,” he said, holding the sheaf of papers out to Edge.

Edge took it from him with a sigh, flipped the first two pages. “I don't see what good it will do. It's hardly likely Stiles would be using the former DPI safe houses.”

“Why not? They'd have been put up for sale by the government when DPI was dismantled. They were, at the time, in a hell of a hurry to wash their hands of the entire operation, distance themselves from it.”

“Probably in case word of the atrocities DPI committed ever leaked out,” Donovan suggested.

Edge pursed his lips and skimmed the addresses under the header “Northeast Region.” He slid his forefinger along with his gaze.

That one,
someone said.

Edge frowned, lifting his head sharply. “Well, if you already know which one, why the hell are you asking me?”

Dante and Donovan frowned at each other, then at him. “What makes you think we know which one?” Dante asked.

“One of you just said so.”

“I didn't say a word,” Dante said.

“Neither did I. Niether mentally nor audibly,” Donovan agreed.

Sighing, Edge returned his attention to the sheet, reading farther.

No, no, go back. It's that one, up there, I told you!

He jerked his head up again, eyeing the other two men.

Fourth from the top, that's the one!

Neither man had spoken. Nor did this voice seem like the ones he heard when he communicated with others of his kind telepathically. No, this voice seemed for all the world to be coming from someplace inside him.

“Surely you can hear that,” he asked.

Donovan's puzzled expression changed to one of concern. “I hear nothing. Edge, are you all right?”

“Please, spare me the parental concern.” He glanced down at the sheet again, fourth listing from the top, and read aloud. “One sixty-three, Poplar Avenue, Boston. Is that the one?”

“I don't know,” Donovan said, still confused.

Yes,
the voice said. It was a male voice, not as deep as Edge's own. Some other vampire, trying to offer assistance from afar? Or was it one of Stiles's newest tricks? Had he mastered telepathy now? Was he trying to draw Edge and the others into a trap?

He squeezed his eyes tight. “All right. That's the one.”

“What makes you think that's where she is?” Donovan asked.

Opening his eyes, Edge lifted his brows and tipped his chin to the right. “That's what the voice in my head is telling me, all right?” Then he shrugged. “And I don't hear any better ideas coming from either of you.”

“Fine. Boston, then.”

 

The formula was not on the computer. Nor was it in the file cabinet she managed to open with the force of
her mind. She found several vials of her own blood in the refrigerator, but that was all.

Dammit.

Finally she put everything back exactly the way she'd found it and jumped upward, tugging herself through the hole in the ceiling again. When she looked back down at the room from above, she saw a tiny bit of pink fluff lying on the floor—a piece of the insulation. She looked at it and turned her head just slightly. The fluff spun across the floor and along the wall, vanishing behind a cabinet.

Perfect. She replaced the panel and crawled along the two-by-fours again until she was outside the lab and over the hallway. Then she emerged, lowering herself to the floor, straightening the panel behind her, making sure she left no signs. Then she began walking through the rest of the house.

He must have had notes somewhere. He must have recorded his work as he developed the formula. And he must have the formula itself hidden in this house. He didn't have a photographic memory that she knew of, so there had to be notes, a recipe, something.

Hell, where would he keep it, if not in the lab?

She tiptoed through the hallway, searching the house room by room. It was nearly dawn, she realized when she crossed the living room and glanced at the clock on the wall. It crossed her mind that very soon he would move her to a more secure location. She would be out of reach of assistance. Maybe she should remove the blocks from her mind. Send a call out to her friends. To her mother. To Edge. Just to let them know she was all right.

She closed her eyes and reminded herself of all the reasons why she must not do that. They wouldn't let her stay here long enough to get the formula. If they knew where she was, they would home in on her like a flock of bats
on a mosquito swarm. And they would know where she was if she lowered her shields. They would come charging to the rescue, just like they always did. Edge right along with them, she thought—though she imagined he would deny it with everything in him, if asked. If he found her, he wouldn't leave Stiles alive. She didn't know what his issue with the man was, but it must be a big one.

No, she couldn't let her guard down. Couldn't let any of them know where she was. At least not until she got the formula for Will.

She padded through the carpeted living room, past the sofa and television stand and coffee table. There was a file folder on the coffee table, and she scooped it up as she passed, glancing at its label. “Poe.”

Frowning, she carried it with her into the kitchen, set it on the table and opened the fridge as her stomach growled. She thought about helping herself to some of the fruits and vegetables that filled the drawers. Apparently someone—probably Brookie—had been sent shopping since their arrival here. Amber wondered if they would notice if anything went missing and decided to risk it. She took an apple, a banana, a stalk of celery. Then she opened the cupboards and located a box of granola bars. Thankfully, it was already open, so she took one out. Lastly she took a single serving size bottle of tomato juice. She loaded her stolen booty into a plastic grocery back she found tucked under the sink and turned back to the file folder on the table, flipping it open.

“Poe, Edgar. aka Edge,” the top sheet read. “Ireland, 1943. Sire, Donovan O'Roark.”

She blinked slowly. Edge's name was Edgar Poe? God, his mother must have had one sick sense of humor. And Stiles must be worried about him, to have pulled his file.

Something made her jerk her head up sharply. Not a sound—a feeling. No, the absence of a feeling. Not everyone in the house was asleep anymore. Hell!

She closed the folder and stuffed it into her bag, certain she could sneak it back out to the living room before anyone noticed it missing. Then she tiptoed quickly through the house, every sense on full alert.

She made it to her bedroom door, saw the dead bolt on the outside.

A dead bolt. Nothing else. Excellent. She turned the bolt and quickly jerked the door open, ducking inside. Then, closing the door behind her, she used the power of her mind to close the dead bolt lock again.

She heard it snap into place and knew she'd been successful. Standing on the bed, she shoved the plastic bag up through the now loose ceiling panel, into the crawl space above—ceiling panels had long been a favorite hiding place of hers—and then she carefully put the panel back into place.

Even as footsteps came down the hall, Amber dropped into the bed, wriggled her way beneath the covers and wrestled the pillows up to the top of the mattress where they belonged. Just as she hugged them to her face, the door lock turned, the door opened.

Only it wasn't Stiles who came in this time.

It was Brookie.

A
mber smelled a hint of Brooke's perfume, left over from the day before, a sweet mix of bubble gum and tropical fruit. It was like something a schoolgirl would wear, something that probably came in a pink glass bottle shaped like a kitten.

The woman came farther into the room, her steps soft and padded rather than sharp and clicking. No heels. She was wearing slippers or socks this morning. Probably still in her nightgown. She crept up to Amber's bedside, pausing every couple of steps, as if she were approaching a sleeping tiger. Step, step, pause. Her breaths were strained, as if she were trying to keep them quiet, even while her pounding heart demanded more and more oxygen. Quick, short little breaths. Amber sensed her fear.

What the hell was she doing in here, if she was so afraid?

“Hey,” she whispered. “Hey, wake up.”

Blinking, Amber rolled onto her side and blinked her eyes sleepily. “What?” She frowned as if puzzled, rubbed her eyes.

“I just…wanted to check on you. See if you're okay,” Brookie said.

Amber sat up in the bed, a hand to her head as if she were dizzy. No way was she giving anything away to this woman. Something was wrong about her, off. Studying her face, Amber said, “Who are you?”

“I'm Brooke. I…work with Frank. Sort of.”

“Oh,” Amber said. “You're one of my kidnappers.”

“It's not like that.” Brooke's coppery curls were in disarray, her green eyes huge and round as she shot a nervous look back toward the door. “I don't like what he's doing to you. But it's not like I can stop it.”

“No, of course not.”

“I saw the test kit in the bathroom, so I know you used it by now. Is it true? Are you…?”

Amber shook her head. “It's not possible.”

“The test stick in the garbage read positive.”

“It was a trick. Stiles has some reason for wanting me to believe this absurd notion, but I know better.”

Brooke frowned at her. “How could he have tricked you? The test kit—”

“He had it made up in advance. Tampered with it so it would give a false positive. He must have been planning this for some time.”

Brooke lowered her head.

“What?” Amber asked.

Copper curls moved as she looked up again. “He sent me to the drugstore for the test kit.”

Amber felt her heart squeeze into a tight little knot.

“It was on the shelf with dozens of others, in probably ten different brands. He didn't tell me what brand to buy. Heck, he didn't even tell me which drugstore to use—there are three within a couple blocks of here.” She shook her head slowly. “Unless he managed to tamper
with every kit in all three stores. And since we've never even been to this place until the day before he took you, I don't see how…”

“The day before he kidnapped me?”

She nodded. “We were here for one night. Just long enough to set up the lab, fill the cupboards and turn up the heat. Then we headed to Salem to hunt for you. I had to keep a distance, following along by using the homing device, and just wait until he came to me.”

Amber pursed her lips. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“I…you asked.”

“He told you to, didn't he? He told you to try to make nice with me, to win my trust so you could try to convince me to believe in this insanity he's trying to sell me.”

Brooke took a few steps backward, toward the door. “If he catches me in here, I'm in deep trouble. I just—I just felt sorry for you.”

“You felt sorry for me?”

“Young, pregnant, alone. Being held against your will.” She sent another glance back at the door. “Is there anything I can get for you that will make this easier?”

“Sure, several things. A key to that door would be great. I'd also like the blood he stole from my veins returned to me.”

Brooke pursed her lips. “I could get you some prenatal vitamins.”

“I'd prefer a machine gun. Although that wouldn't kill him anyway, would it?”

“So you know about that,” Brooke whispered.

“Do you?” Amber asked.

Looking up slowly, Brooke nodded.

“What will kill him, Brooke? How can he die?”

She shook her head, backing nearer the door. “He doesn't know I know.”

“I don't want to kill him,” Amber said quickly. “In fact, that's the last thing I want to happen. That's why I stopped Edge from killing him.” She didn't even know if the woman was aware of anything that had happened until now. Not until she said it, at least. As soon as she did, she saw the acknowledgment in Brooke's green eyes.

“I've wondered…why you did that.”

“Then he told you.”

She shook her head. “I read some of his notes about it. I'm not supposed to know any of this.”

“Stiles is the only other person in the world who's like me,” Amber said. “Do you have any idea what it's like, not knowing what can kill you?”

Brooke licked her lips, her hand turning on the doorknob.

“Please,” Amber asked, knowing she was about to lose her best chance.

Brooke met her eyes. “Incineration.” She spat the word quickly as she jerked the door open. “Till there's nothing left but ash. It's the only way.” Ducking out the door, she closed it softly behind her and turned the lock.

Licking her lips, Amber sat down to digest the information she'd been given. And yet, she couldn't really trust any of it. There was no way to be sure Stiles hadn't put Brooke up to this entire little visitation.

She was hungry. She thought about her hidden snacks and the file on Edge, wondered if Stiles would be in to check on her anytime soon and decided to risk it. She climbed onto the bed, reaching up into the ceiling, and retrieved her bag. Then she sat on the bed,
opened the file folder, peeled the banana and kept her senses alert for Stiles's approach.

 

“Right there, see?”

Edge stood in brilliant sunlight, beside a gaunt, tough-looking kid of about seventeen. It shocked him to be standing in the sunlight and not burning. But after a moment he accepted that it simply was and focused on the boy. The kid wore faded jeans, with straight legs and worn-out knees. The hems were frayed. His hair was too long, dark and straight, and tended to fall into his eyes.

“Right there,” the boy said again.

He was pointing, and Edge looked. There was a small, ordinary looking brick house, on a hilltop. Steps landscaped into the lawn zigzagged up the hill to the front door. There was a wrought-iron fence around the place, but it looked more ornamental than functional.

“That's where she is?” Edge asked.

“Yeah.”

“How do you know?”

“What difference does it make? She's in there. You want to see?”

Edge felt his heart contract. “God, yes.”

The kid smiled a little, gave a nod.

Edge felt his brain twist and whirl as if being sucked into a whirlpool. He pressed his hands to the sides of his head, grimacing in pain. And then just as suddenly there was a pop and a rush of relief. He blinked his vision into focus, gave his head a shake. “Jesus, what the hell was that?” At least the pain was gone. He lowered his hands to his sides and looked around.

He was in a tiny room, and right in front of him, Alby sat in a bed, under the covers, with her back braced against the headboard and her knees bent. An open file folder
rested against her thighs. She was staring at something inside it. A banana peel and an apple core lay on the bed beside her, and she was working on devouring a granola bar and sucking down a bottle of tomato juice.

“Alby!” He moved closer, noting her color was still pale, but otherwise, she looked well. God, he wished he could sustain his indignation, his anger. But right now all he could feel was relief at seeing her again. “Are you all right?”

She didn't move, didn't react in any way, and when Edge reached out a hand to touch her, to shake her out of her apparent stupor if necessary, his hand moved right through her. As if one of them were made of smoke.

“This is a dream, Edge. She doesn't even know you're here,” his companion told him.

“The hell she doesn't. Alby!” He shouted her name with his entire being, with his mind, with his soul.

She blinked, frowned, and looked up from the file folder, glancing around the room as if she'd heard or sensed something. Edge focused everything in him on her.
I'm coming for you.

She continued to look around the room, then sighed and focused again on the pages she was reading so intently. Curious, Edge moved around until he could see what had her so engrossed.

The left side of the folder held a line drawing that bore a striking resemblance, Edge thought, to himself. It showed a lanky young man in a leather jacket, sitting on the hood of a ‘69 Mustang, a cigarette dangling from one hand.

Wait a minute, that was
his
Mustang.

He glanced at the facing page and saw a thick sheaf of papers, line after line of typed words, telling his story—or Stiles's version of it, anyway.

Again he was sucked headfirst into the vortex, and this time when he popped out the other side, he found himself returning to the warehouse on that horrible night in 1959.

Hell, no. No, I don't want to see this.

But he couldn't control the scene playing out in front of him, and he knew, somehow, through gut instinct, why. This was Alby's mind. He was seeing what she imagined as she read Stiles's account. Watching himself. Things didn't look exactly as they had been. The warehouse was cleaner, neater, the windows unbroken as he moved through it. And he looked different, too, more as he was today and less as he had been then.

He tried to withdraw from Amber's consciousness, but it wasn't possible. This wasn't like reading her thoughts, trespassing inside her mind. He didn't know what the hell this was. It was different, beyond his control.

He closed his eyes, and still he saw. He saw himself walking into the warehouse, heard himself calling out to Scottie and Bridget and the others. “I'm back. Didn't find Billy Boy. Has he come home yet?”

But only his own voice echoed back in answer. He remembered the dread, the certainty that something was terribly wrong.

He kept moving, and then, suddenly, he smelled it even stronger than before.

Death, rank and bloody, tinged the air with its reeking stench. It was coming from here, from inside the warehouse. “God, no,” he heard himself whisper, and he ran forward, across the warehouse's floor, around the corner. Then he skidded to a stop and fought down the bile as he saw what awaited him there.

They hung upside down, suspended from the rafters high above, by ropes wrapped around their ankles. Their
throats had been cut. Every one of them. Bridget, her little girl face streaked in blood. It had soaked her red curls, dripped from them into the pool on the floor. Her terror still echoed in the air.

He heard his own voice crying out in denial, felt the weakness that overwhelmed him until he sank to his knees, felt the hot tears welling in his eyes and spilling over.

Dead. Gone. All of them. And he was alone.

Staggering to his feet, he gathered his wits, leaped upward, to the loft, and looked at the items on the floor. Items that identified the killer clearly, just by the ones that were missing. Stiles. Frank W. Stiles. He would remember the name for the rest of his days.

He tugged out his pocketknife. One by one he cut the ropes, gripping them and lowering the lifeless shells of the vampiric children to the floor below, gently, with great care. His kids, he'd called them. His fledgling gang. The closest thing he would ever have to children of his own. When he jumped down from the loft again, he knelt beside them, shaking his head, touching their faces, washing them with his tears, speaking to them.

Edge spoke to his past self. “You idiot, shake off the grief and realize he's still there somewhere. He's watching. You could get him right now, right there! Wake up!”

But of course he couldn't change the past. In the past, he'd been too overwhelmed with grief and horror to think about opening his mind to the space around him. He watched as his former self went for a pail of water and a washrag, and proceeded to bathe the blood from his orphans. He watched as the past Edge went to wash the streaks of it from Bridget's delicate face.

Stiles. The name whispered through his mind with a
certainty that couldn't be denied. Anger rushed through him, like fire through his veins. His blood turned to lava. He would find the bastard, wherever he was, and he would kill him.

But first…

The old Edge went through the kids' belongings, locating clothes for them, dressing them. Then he chose one item from each of them, to keep in their memory. He lit a cigarette then. Sat on the floor, their bodies all laid out before him, smoking, talking to them.

“I'll get him,” he said. “I'll get him for what he did to you. I promise you that. He'll pay.”

And finally he got to his feet and flicked his cigarette into the pool of kerosene he'd poured around them. Then he left his home for the last time.

It was only as he stood outside, watching it burn, that he felt the presence. Someone was there…watching him.

Stiles!

He whirled, honing his senses to locate the man. Bastard! The nerve to hang around and watch him suffer! Watch him grieve!

He opened his mind, searching, casting a wide net, and sensing, even as he did, the man fleeing, escaping, slipping out of Edge's reach.

And then the images ended.

Edge's brain was nearly crushed under the pressure as he was sucked out of the consciousness he'd been inside and found himself back in the bedroom again, watching her, watching Amber Lily.

She closed the file folder, but the drawing was no longer inside. She held it, staring at it as tears flowed down her cheeks. “No wonder,” she whispered. “God, no wonder you hate Stiles so much.”