Twilight Fulfilled (5 page)

Utana was standing beside a shower stall, staring at it as if in wonder. He was buck naked, and she couldn't take her eyes off him. She had a three-quarter view, and it was the shoulders that got her first. Rippling, bulging, beautiful. Every muscle was visible beneath his smooth, tanned, hairless skin. Then his chest, broad and thick, and then the abs… And as he turned a little more, the blackened section of skin where her blast had hit home. As she focused there, she felt the pain he was still in. He was trying to overcome it, trying to function in spite of it, and, for the most part, he was succeeding in keeping it buried.

He was one powerful man.

Her gaze slid downward—down to his pelvic bones and…

Oh, for the love of…well, it figured he would be hung like a stallion, didn't it?

She blinked and forced herself to look elsewhere. But it was not safe. His hard butt had just enough curve and dimpled inward at the sides. His thighs were like tree trunks. His calves like banded steel.

God, all right already. She had work to do here.

She had to kill him. She had to destroy that beautiful work of art just beyond the glass. She could probably do it right then. He was so busy staring at the shower, as if he were completely awestruck by the device he'd just made use of. His hair was still wet. He'd shaved at some point. That was probably what had been taking so long. She didn't imagine his newfound pal had had an easy time showing him how.

Utana dragged a towel from the rack and wiped himself down with it, taking great care on his injured belly.

And then he turned to the sink and twisted the faucets as if for the first time, like a child. As the water ran, he cupped his hands beneath it, and a smile split his face wide. He cranked the faucets off, then back on, then off again.

A moment later he was doing the same with the light switch. On, off, on, off.

Brigit lifted her hand, palm up, fingers loosely resting against her thumb.

His white teeth were perfect, the joy on his face exquisite, despite his pain. He flicked the light a few more times, then gazed at the toilet. Bending, he picked up the lid and stared inside. His smile faded. A frown drew his glorious black brows together as he studied it, tipping his head this way and that. He lifted the tank lid, peeking inside, and his frown grew deeper. Replacing the tank lid, he hit
the handle, and with a whoosh the toilet flushed. He jumped back, eyes going wide, and then that smile reappeared. Closing his eyes, he placed both hands on the tank and closed his eyes as if listening, or feeling for something.

Of course, she reminded herself. He could understand how something worked by laying his hands on it, absorbing the information by touch. That was what he was doing now.

Eventually he took his hands away. “Ahh, that is what you do,” he said, his voice loud enough for her to hear beyond the glass. “I guessed well.”

Brigit drew a deep breath and began calling up power from the depths of her. She waited to feel it rising up through her feet, heating her legs, filtering into her spine like magma rising through a volcanic chamber. But it didn't.

Utana was done with the toilet now. He was picking up articles of clothing that had, apparently, been provided to him by the local Samaritan. He held up the trousers and looked at them doubtfully.

Turning, he yanked open the bathroom door and strode, naked, back into the room, apparently complaining about the pants.

Out of sight. Out of reach. She'd had the chance to save her people, and she had let it slip away. Again. What the hell was wrong with her?

Oh, but that smile…those eyes…told her more clearly than anything what was wrong with her.
She'd stopped seeing him as a killing machine. She'd seen him, just now, as a
man
. A man who could feel joy in the wonder of hot and cold running water, and electric lights. Like an innocent child, rather than a ruthless killer. A man whose death would mean his return to a state that was a lot like being buried alive.

Exactly
like being buried alive.

No one deserved that, did they? Surely there had to be another way.

Slowly she withdrew from the window. She was going to have to follow them still farther, because she was certain now that this motel was not their final destination. If only she had her car.

 

“My king, you are about to experience something you've never even imagined.”

Utana was feeling much better since his bathing, though still hurting immensely from Brigit's blast. He ignored the pain—something a warrior and king must become adept at doing. It was part, he thought, of being alive, being in a body again. And after being trapped without one for so long, he appreciated even the pain. He felt good, too, about his cleanly shaven face and the minty taste the “teeth-brushing” had left in his mouth, despite still being exhausted, in pain and uncomfortable in the modern clothing he'd reluctantly agreed to wear. The pants, in particular, felt confining and strange.

He looked across the car at his newfound vizier, doubt in his eyes. “You know not the wonder of my…imagines.”

“True enough.” Nashmun was driving, but he pointed up at the sky with one hand. “Have you ever imagined that?”

Scooting lower in the leather seat of the car, Utana tipped his head to stare skyward as the odd-looking bird passed overhead, and he nodded. “Yes, the large birds who soar, but whose wings do not move. I have seen and wondered on these.”

“They're not birds, my friend. They are airplanes. Very much like the car in which you are riding now. They are machines, made by man, to take us from place to place. But instead of traveling on the ground, as we do in the car, the airplanes fly through the air.”

Utana shot him a look, then craned his neck to see the bird again. “It is not possible.”

“Of course it is. We're going to ride in one very soon, to take us to your new home.”

“We are…to fly?”

“Yes. You'll love it.”

Shaking his head as the airplane-bird moved out of sight, vanishing into the clouds, Utana said, “It is a strange world.”

“I'm sure it is. Your English is coming along beautifully, however.”

With a grunt and a nod at the device on the seat
beside him, Utana nodded. “The voice that speaks into my ears is…help.”

“It's an iPod. And the word you want is
helpful
.”

“Helpful. Yes.” He studied the man, his stomach fluttering with excitement over what was to come, and yet his mind was occupied with matters far more important. And one beautiful woman whose kiss still lingered on his lips. “Where do we fly?”

“There's a house awaiting you—almost a palace, really. It's where certain foreign royals stay when they visit my nation's leader. And I've procured it for our use for…well, for as long as we're likely to need it.”

A palace. It was certainly time, Utana thought. He had been treated with far less respect than his station demanded by the people of this land so far. And yet that, too, wasn't his highest priority. “In…the direction of north?”

“South, actually.”

Utana shook his head firmly. “I must go north. My mission lies in the north.”

Nashmun sent him a steady look. His eyes appeared honest. “I want to help you in your mission, my king. But you need a home base. A place from which to plan and launch your attack. You need to heal from that wound you have,” he said, with a nod at Utana's midsection. “And to regain your strength, and learn more about the way this world works and how to make your way in it.”

“They will escape me. I will know not how to find them again.”

“You can feel them. Sense them. Can't you?” Nashmun shrugged, not awaiting a reply. “Besides, I doubt it will be necessary. They'll be sending someone after you before long, if they haven't already.”

Utana lifted his brows. “Someone?”

“An assassin. To kill you, Utana. They know you have no choice but to wipe them out. And they will try to murder you before you get the chance.” Nashmun tightened his grip on the wheel that let him steer the car. “That's what kind of scum we're dealing with here. They're not human. They don't have human emotions, or even common decency. They would do this, take the life of the man who created them—a man who should be as a god to them, a man they should fall on their knees and worship—they would take the life of their own king, their own father, in order to protect their own putrid existence.”

Utana lowered his head. Indeed, the man was correct. His people had already sent an “assassin” to try to kill him. A fiery, powerful, sexy assassin he would rather ravage than battle.

And yet, he couldn't really blame the vahmpeers for doing so. He had, after all, destroyed a great many of their kind.

“It will be better to let them run awhile,” Nash
mun was saying. “Let them find a haven they think is secure. They'll start to think they've escaped you, start to relax their defenses a bit. Meanwhile, we will be gathering information. We'll know everything about where they are and how many of them remain. When we move in, we'll take them by surprise.”

“Not
we,
Nashmun.
I
.
I
will be the one to send them to their deaths.”

Nashmun shrugged. “As you wish, my king. But either way, it will be easy. Fast. One attack, and it will be done. And then you can live out your days in peace, knowing that when you die, the gods will allow you entry into the Land of the Dead, where you will find rest at long last.”

“I will not live long past my children,” he said. “I have no wish to do so.”

Utana lowered his head, his heart bleeding in his chest at the thought of finishing the task he had already begun. Oddly, his first attack on the vahmpeers had not hurt him the way only thinking of the next one did. It had not hurt him at all. His mind had not been fully restored then, he thought. He had lashed out like a long-caged and oft-tormented lion, whose door has been left open. It had felt like release.

Now it felt like a crime. Even though he knew it was the will of the gods, it felt wrong in his soul.
And he wished with all he was that there was some other way. Even though he knew there was not.

“You're injured and weak, my king. In only a few hours you will be home. I promise, you'll be glad you let me help you.”

Utana nodded, then let his head rest against the back of the seat. He was injured. Brigit's white-hot power had delivered a powerful blow. He'd used every bit of energy he could raise to keep her from killing him. And there was simply nothing left.

“That's it, my king. You relax. Try to get some sleep. It's all going to be better in no time. You'll have food, servants, a physician to examine your wounds. You'll be treated the way a man of your stature deserves. And you'll be far more equal to your task when you recover and regain your strength. I promise.”

B
rigit followed, still on foot. She was exhausted from her battle with Utana. Fighting the oldest immortal had drained her. Predictable, but she tended to see herself as ten feet tall and bulletproof.

Only in hindsight had it hit her between the eyes like a damned mallet that he most likely could have annihilated her if he'd wanted to. But he hadn't. She
had
landed a blast. He was probably hurting like hell. Unless he healed rapidly like she and her brother did. Or during the day, the way vampires did. Or if he'd used the healing power he'd taken from her brother, James, to heal himself. If he even knew how.

She wondered about that. About the extent of his powers. About the whys and wherefores of how his brand of immortality worked. She wondered if even he knew the answers to those questions. He was the only one of his kind, after all. Who the hell was he going to ask?

She knew that feeling a little too well. Yet another thing they had in common, she and the big guy. The beam of light from the eyes—the power to 'splode things, as she'd put it when she was a toddler, just figuring it out and getting yelled at for damn near every little explosion. The immortality, or at least, for her and J.W., apparent immortality. And the lack of anyone else in the world like them.

Of course, she had J.W. But he wasn't really like her, either. His power was a good one. He was the healer. Hers was the opposite. She was a destroyer.

Like Utana.

He must have missed her on purpose. There was no question. His aim wasn't that bad. He certainly hadn't missed any members of that S.W.A.T. team that had surrounded him in downtown Bangor.

She reminded herself sternly that he hadn't missed many of the vampires he'd attacked, either. Her friends. Her family. Tortured to the point of insanity by five thousand years of living death or not, that was unforgivable. Good to keep that in mind.

At any rate, she'd had a few hours sleep—yeah, in his arms, on the forest floor, like a pair of star-crossed lovers or some shit, but even so, she'd recovered some of her energy, even though she'd been expending it rapidly by following the big guy and his mysterious rescuer on foot ever since, all the while cloaking her presence. The food had helped, and the route the stranger was taking with his over
size green SUV helped even more. It took them right back through Bangor.

Sighing in abject relief, Brigit veered off from her pursuit. She jogged left, as they headed straight through the city, then right, into the drugstore parking lot where she'd left her baby-blue 20th anniversary edition Ford Thunderbird.

God, she loved her car. She had the key ring in her hand before she reached it, hit the remote starter button and unlocked the doors. By the time she slid behind the wheel, her baby was purring and ready. Relief washed over her like a warm bath. Another thing she was missing. For just a moment she leaned back against the headrest, closed her eyes and breathed.

Yes, she had inherited superhuman strength from the vampiric side of her ancestry. She could run very fast, and very far. But it wasn't as easy for her as it was for her Undead relatives. She had to breathe, her heart had to pump, it wasn't the same at all. It took a lot out of her.

But her pursuit was not yet ended. And her respite had to be brief.

Without wasting any more time, she got back on their trail, pulling out of the lot, then zooming along the side street parallel to Main, until she reached the edge of town and headed toward the highway. She could still see the tail end of the green SUV up ahead. Pressing down on the gas, Brigit thrilled
to the roar of the engine and the feeling of power beneath her. She didn't even have to max out her horsepower, though, before she caught up enough to be sure she wouldn't lose them

She eased off the accelerator, keeping a safe distance and hoping Utana wouldn't notice her so near. If she let her focus waver, even a little, he might sense her. She certainly felt him. He was a keen, sizzling awareness that seemed to come to life in every cell of her body. Every nerve ending seemed acutely attuned to his energy. His life force. His…aura. The closer she got to him, the more her skin tingled and prickled and
felt
. Every part of her was uncomfortably aware. Like when her teeth became sensitive to heat and cold. That kind of overpowering feeling, of being too sensitive, too aware. Too…vulnerable. Yes, vulnerable. Damn, she didn't like that at all.

The SUV was turning off. Okay, okay, she needed to stop getting so distracted. She frowned as she approached the exit, noting the signs for Eastern Main Airport. She assumed they meant “airport” in the loosest sense of the word, because they were, at this point, in the middle of nowhere, and because this was not a place she'd ever heard of. It clearly wasn't a commercial airport.

Good God, they were going to fly? The Good Samaritan was going to get a surprise when he tried to put a five-thousand-year-old Sumerian on an air
plane. Utana wasn't all that stable on the ground, for God's sake. He was probably going to freak.

Beyond all that, Brigit wondered again who the hell the guy in the SUV was. Her suspicion that he was more than just a helpful stranger grew bigger. Because why would a helpful stranger feed Utana, clothe him, bathe him, shave him and then drive him to an airport?

Something was going on. She should have sensed it from the start. But she'd been so busy trying to sort through all the wishy-washy emotional bullshit, not to mention the fire and brimstone sexual bullshit, in her mind that she'd missed it.

Brigit followed them, staying as far behind as she could, over a circuitous and unpaved road. They bypassed several hangars, heading instead up a side route marked plainly as private. Though she imagined this entire place was privately owned.

No one stopped her as she tagged along, keeping their dust cloud in sight. Not yet, at least.

Far ahead of her, the dirt gave way to a winding strip of pavement. The SUV came to a stop at a manned security booth. After what she assumed was a brief exchange, the zebra-striped bar blocking the way rose up to allow the SUV entry. Not much farther beyond, Brigit saw a small black jet sitting on the tarmac. She could tell from the wavering vapors it emitted that its powerful engines were running.

A private jet?

Well, that clinched it. This Good Samaritan dude was definitely not the kindhearted local yokel she'd taken him for, despite what his jeans and flannel shirt and forest-green SUV might suggest.

Were probably intended to suggest.

The two men got out. Utana was moving under his own steam, and she hated the feeling of relief that came with the sight of him. She was supposed to kill him, not wound him and then worry about whether he was feeling it.

His stance wasn't as erect or powerful as was his norm. He was still hurting. As she watched him from a distance, she felt his pain and wondered again why the hell he didn't use her brother's stolen power to heal himself.

Seeing the man that way detracted from her view of him as an all-powerful, timeless, ageless, almost Satanic being. She was seeing him as a man, a wounded man, out of his time and confused. Then again, she'd been seeing him that way ever since he'd kissed her. Ever since she'd seen his childlike delight at running water and electric lights.

The two men stood for a moment, and she tried to see the look on Utana's face as he studied the jet. God, it must be amazing to him. Beyond imagining. And yet his face and reactions were hidden from her view.

And then she was distracted. The man at the
tiny booth was exiting it, looking her way, raising a walkie-talkie from his belt.

Damn.

She executed a quick U-turn and headed back to the parking lot. No garage. This airport was too small for that. She left her precious car in the lot, locking it up tight, and then jogged toward that winding strip of pavement again. As soon as she thought she was out of sight of any prying eyes she poured on the speed…and yet she was too late.

The small jet was already in motion, speeding down the runway like a black vampire bat, about to take flight.

Blow it up!

She swallowed hard, watching the plane as it roared down the runway, picking up speed. Lifting her hand, fingers to thumb, she focused her eyes on the jet.

Do it! It's what you came here to do. Hell, it's what you were
born
to do!
Her inner voice commanded.
Kill him. Kill them both.

She called up the power, and her hand trembled with her torn emotions. Dammit, what was she going to do? There could be innocent people on that jet. The pilot, any other passengers she may not have seen. Hell, she didn't even know if the Good Samaritan was deserving of being blown to bits.

Since when have you given a damn about innocent mortals?

That mental voice sounded more like Rhiannon's than her own.

Shit.

The plane was lifting off and no longer within her range. Or at least not within a range she'd ever attempted before. She'd hesitated too long. The decision was made. She would simply have to follow them. Unfortunately, she couldn't fly.

Striding purposely onward, she marched straight up to the small coffin-size booth where the security guard sat on his tall stool pretending he liked his job.

“I need some information,” she told him before he could even ask her who she was or tell her this area was restricted or some such crap.

He looked at her, his eyes narrow with suspicion. “You're not supposed to be out here.”

“Well, I won't be—as soon as you tell me where I should be.” She flashed him a big, sparkling smile and tipped her head slightly to one side, like every blonde pop star in every publicity photo.

It had the desired effect. He smiled back. “What are you looking for?”

“I need to know if you know where that private jet was going.”

He blinked. “And why do you need to know that?”

Her smile faltered, and she felt frustration rising up in her chest. He was going to be difficult. And
she was really out of patience. Tired, sore, hungry again—she had, as her brother had often noted, an appetite like a lioness.

Sighing, she called up her vampiric powers, though not all of them. She didn't need to fang-up to exert mind control. Nor could she, by daylight, without risking severe burns, if not death. When she met his eyes again, however, she saw the reflection of her own, their unnatural glow shining back at her from his startled mortal ones.

But only briefly.

“Tell me where that jet was going.”

“Virginia. Near D.C.”

“What airport?”

“Private airstrip. Covington.”

“Address?”

“Twenty-one-fifty Airport Drive.”

“How creative. Who were the men I just saw boarding the jet?”

“Um, I don't know about the big guy. Never saw him before. The other one is here a lot—long hyphenated name. Graverson-Bailey or something like that.”

“And what else do you know about him?”

He paused, his eyes shifting left as if to search his memory. She quickly touched his chin, drawing his gaze back to her powerful one. It wouldn't do to let her control over his mind slip, not now.

“I don't know, exactly. Something for the government.”

“And how do you know that?”

“His ID. It's all official.”

“What does it say?”

He blinked. “I don't remember…”

“Yes, you do, Jerry,” she said, sparing a glance for the name tag pinned to his chest. “It's in your brain, just like a photograph in an album. Open that album, look at that man's identification card and read it to me.”

His eyes went distant and even a bit cloudy. And then he was speaking in a haunting monotone. “Nash Gravenham-Bail. DOB, eleven ten sixty-two. Height, five feet eleven inches. Weight, one hundred sixty-four pounds. Hair, brown. Eyes, gray. Central Intelligence Agency, United States of America. Security Clearance, Level 6, DPI.”

She felt her eyes widen as she turned to search the skies for the departing jet. But all that remained was its vapor trail.

Utanapishtim, the most deadly being ever to walk the earth, was in the hands of the DPI.

Because she had hesitated to act—because she'd been shaken by a kiss, like a high school girl with her first crush—the two most powerful enemies her kind had ever faced had joined forces.

What the hell was she going to do now?