Twilight Fulfilled (8 page)

He'd had no idea that the entire modern world knew who and what he was. He was quite simply stunned. And he was pleased by the gifts they laid at his feet as they came to him. Gold, silver, jewels, fabrics.

For a time he was swept up in the adoration. But then he felt something…different.

Her.

A warm, tingling sensation danced up his spine, along the nape of his neck, tickling him there like the breath from her lips.

Brigit. She was near.

He felt her. Smelled her. Looking up, Utana searched the room for her beautiful face. What was she doing here?

“And now, my king, for your surprise,” Nashmun said.

Glancing his way, Utana lifted his brows. “I thought all of this was my…surprise.”

“In part. But there's more.” Nashmun clapped his hands twice, and as he did, the musicians ceased their playing and began again with a new song. The drums were louder, more insistent. A door in the back of the room opened, as the lights dimmed low. And the women came through it. Dancers, dancers like the ones from his own time, with scarves trailing, and faces hidden beneath veils designed not to cover, but to entice. Their bodies moved, snakelike, as they entered the room single file, bellies bared and twisting, hips and breasts adorned with jingling coins, feet bare, except for ankle bracelets.

Their movements and the beating of the drums were impossible to separate. They were one, as they danced a serpentine path onto the platform, where they performed for him.

But his eyes were on only one.

The one in the center, who moved like no other, her eyes glued to his over the top of the veil that concealed lips he had dreamed of tasting again. Her hips snapped with the power of command, and her belly undulated as if with a life of its own.

Her eyes did not release his as she danced.

And he did not release hers.

“You are pleased, my king?”

“I am…more than pleased. You've done well. I would ask only one more thing of you, my faithful vizier.”

Nashmun must have smiled. Utana felt him smile, but he could not look away from the beautiful Brigit long enough to know for sure. “I think I've already guessed what that might be, my lord. Several of the dancers are prepared to see to any other…needs you might have. In your chambers tonight.”

“I want only one,” he said, his eyes on Brigit.

Nashmun followed Utana's eyes to the beauty who danced like no other. He frowned slightly at her. “Who is…?”

But he stopped there. Utana saw Brigit's beautiful pale blue eyes shift to meet Nashmun's. He saw the power they held, those eyes, and he focused his mind on hers to hear her thoughts.

Yes,
she told the vizier.
I belong here. You hired me personally. You trust me implicitly. I am your favorite in the troupe, and you will grant me anything I desire.

Her hips began to shimmy as the drumbeat grew more rapid.

Anything.

Anything.

Anything.

“Yes, anything,” Nashmun whispered.

“What did you say?” Utana asked, privately amused by his golden goddess's power over mortal men.

“Um, nothing. But yes, I'll see to it, my lord.”

“Good.” Utana lifted his cup, draining it of the wine it held, than handed it to his vizier, with whom he was more pleased than ever before. “More wine.”

 

Brigit's skirt was made of several layers of shiny satin in a deep jewel-tone like the sea itself, and over them flowed sheer layers of paler blue and purple that mimicked the many shades of the sky at twilight. Her hip scarf of teal and green rode low, coins jingling with every move she made. Her belly was bare from hips to breasts, which were cradled in a heart-shaped scrap of material that somehow managed to boost her cleavage to a formerly unknown degree. The top was fringed in green, and at the end of each strand hung yet another coin-shaped metal bangle. When she shimmied, they shimmied, and the effect on the crowd was gratifyingly mesmerizing.

Idiots.

Sheer, oversize scarves draped from her arms, and she whirled them skillfully and far beyond the abilities of the professionally trained dancers who surrounded her. But then again, no vampire blood
ran in their veins, nor had they been personally coached by an Egyptian high priestess who'd probably been there when the dance was invented.

They didn't have the power to influence the minds of mere mortals as she did. They didn't have the physical strength to move the way she did. She put them all to shame.

And just as she had hoped, Utana couldn't take his eyes off her. They were glued to her—and not to her face, either. She twisted her body in slow, sensual undulations that mimicked the heaving waves of the ocean. Those waves moved over her, from her thighs to her hips, to her belly, to her chest. Her arms, long and strong, were like cobras dancing to the tune of a snake charmer. Her hips circled slowly, then snapped to one side, circled the other way, then snapped again, and the bangles sang their hypnotic song, matching the drumbeats that pounded like the hearts of every male in the room.

Oh, she had him. He was getting hard just looking at her. She knew it. There was no way he was going to let her leave this palace tonight. He would insist on taking her to his bedchambers, and he would also insist on complete privacy, despite knowing what she was here for. She was willing it. And he would comply, despite his awareness that he would be risking his own life, and foolishly so. He would comply because his ego was too big to admit
that she was any threat to him. And because his penis was going to be doing all the talking anyway.

No man could resist the magic of the dance when it was wielded as it was originally intended; as a ritual, as a spell, as an enchantment. As the embodiment of pure feminine power. The power of the goddess herself.

She felt that power rising in her, just as Rhiannon had always told her it would. Utana would not give her identity away to his lying, scheming, scar- faced sidekick. If he did, they wouldn't let her stay. And he wanted her to stay. He wanted it more than he wanted to draw another breath.

She had him.

He smiled, almost as if reading her mind, and she felt her eyes widen in alarm, realizing she'd been so caught up in her own sex appeal that she'd forgotten to block her thoughts.

Lifting a hand, he crooked a finger at her, beckoning her closer.

It would look odd if she refused. Clearly everyone here had been instructed to treat him like the King of the World. Poor Utana was the only one not in on the joke. This entire evening was some kind of giant deception. The people around him, claiming to be the current leaders of the nations of the world, were nothing more than actors, playing roles. Deceiving him, lying to him. All in the
employ of the DPI. She almost felt sorry for him. And yet she, too, was deceiving him.

Straight to the grave, perhaps.

She sidestepped down from the raised platform, one arm up high, one out straight, wrists circling, hips snapping with each step. Her entire body took part in the dance as she writhed her way closer and still closer to him, feeling him, his desire, his arousal, his manliness, with every step she took. He rose to his feet as she reached him.

She stopped inches from his body, arms overhead, snaking over each other as her hips swirled in an endless figure eight that brushed his groin lightly with every pass.

He took the final step, closing the space between them, so that every inch of her body undulated against his.

“You have no idea how glad I am to see you, Lady Moonlight,” he said for her ears alone.

She lifted her brows and spoke just as softly. “Your English has improved dramatically.”

“I learn rapidly.”

“But what's up with this Lady Moonlight bit?”

“It is what you remind me of. Moonlight.” He ran the back of one hand over her cheek to her chin, to her neck. “Pure. Mystical. Secretive. Potent.”

Shivering with pleasure at his touch, Brigit reminded herself that she was supposed to be making him lose his mind with desire, not the other way
around. And yet she couldn't move away, could she? Not if she were going to keep this illusion intact. The others must continue to believe she was a part of this ridiculous charade. If she did anything out of character, the glamour she had cast over them would falter. She was only a quarter vampire. Holding a roomful of liars in her thrall was an effort.

Particularly with Utana distracting her this way.

“Besides,” Utana said, “I presume you do not wish for my vizier to know you for who you really are. You took a grave chance in coming here—even with the veil, you are a woman few men could forget easily.”

“I had to see you again,” she whispered.

“And so you shall.” He leaned his head closer, so that his nose was barely touching her neck, and he inhaled her scent as he moved up to her ear.

Her knees turned to water.

“You will continue to dance for me until I say otherwise. Or I will tell them who you are and have you arrested.”

Her eyes widened. “You wouldn't.”

“Dare you put that to the test?” His gaze intensified, holding hers.

Softly, almost against her own will, Brigit heard herself whisper, “No…”

Quickly she looked away. God, he was powerful.

“Your eyes will remain on mine. You will look at no other.”

She bit her lip to prevent vocalizing her absolute consent. But he felt it all the same; she saw it in his satisfied smile.

“Return to the stage, then,” he said, trailing his hand down her back, pausing on her backside and squeezing it hard. “And make those coins jingle all the way.” He smacked her as she turned and obeyed, shimmying as she moved across the room and back up onto the stage, wondering what on earth she'd just got herself into.

B
rigit fixed her eyes on Utana, and for the life of her, she could not look away. She danced as she had never danced before, the power of it rising up from some unknown and yet bottomless well within her. And she danced for him alone. Despite her mission, despite her lies, she felt as if this performance were real. As if he truly was her beloved king; as if she truly was his to command. As if her deepest desire and only goal was to give him pleasure as he watched the movements of her body.

When the troupe finished their performance and left the stage, Utana rose and pointed at her. “This one remains,” he announced. And then he turned to the drummers. “Keep playing.”

They glanced nervously at each other, and then at Scarface.

“Your heard the king. Play!” the man said.

The drummers played. And Brigit kept on danc
ing, twisting, writhing, as if she were possessed, under a spell, moved about by an unseen puppeteer whose will could not be denied.

Utana stabbed her eyes with his, sent his command to her by means of thought, not words.
Here. By me. You dance for me alone.

Her throat went dry as she wondered just what the hell had taken possession of her body, her mind. But she moved to dance in front of him, and she realized it wasn't entirely against her will. She loved the passion in his eyes. The desire she was making him feel for her. It was heady. She felt powerful.

He moved closer to her, taking a seat in the softness of a huge cushion on the floor. He seemed to be enjoying the food, the wine, but she knew it was a lie. He was focused only on her, on her swirling, gyrating hips, level with his face.

She didn't know how much longer she could keep going. Her body was coated in a thin sheen of perspiration. She'd been dancing nonstop for two hours and then some. Then, finally, he leaned toward his so-called vizier and said, “Have her taken to my chambers. And…bind her.”

Brigit sucked in a gasp, opened her mouth to protest and then bit her lip. It wouldn't matter. She didn't need her hands to blast him with her power. She liked to use her hands to help her focus and direct the energy, but it wasn't necessary. He was going to come around to her way of thinking, or he
was going to be spread across the room in bits and pieces, whether he had her bound or not.

Gravenham-Bail's eyebrows went up, but he nodded and rose to obey, taking Brigit by the arm. She stopped dancing at last and stumbled from the room at his side.

They exited the ballroom, crossed the palace-like atrium and moved up the curving stairway to the left, then along a hall to the double doors of the king's suite of rooms. Along the way her escort paused to whisper to another man, who nodded and hurried away.

The scar-faced man flung the doors open and shoved her inside. “You've been paid very well,” he said to her.

Although she hadn't, she had apparently done a very good job of convincing him that she was one of his employees.

“Very well,” she replied.

“And you were told this might be a possibility.”

“I don't think I agreed to the bondage bit, though.”

“Well, it's not like you have a choice, honey. Shit, you were practically asking for it, the way you were dancing out there.”

Behind him, the man he'd spoken to on the way upstairs appeared, bearing two pairs of handcuffs and several lengths of rope.

Scarface took them without looking at him and said, “Go on. Close the doors on your way out.”

Brigit's alarm bells were going off.

“Give me your arms.”

“Look, I'm not sure this is such a—”

He grabbed her wrists, yanking them forward. She could have pulled free. Hell, she could have blown him to pieces or just simply broken his neck. But that would have given her away. He worked for the DPI, and besides that, he knew her. If she removed the veil or relaxed the glamour she was still casting over him, he would recognize her as the leader of the vampire resistance who had captured him, ever so briefly.

If she gave herself away, she would wind up in a government lab as its favorite rat. The DPI had been hunting for the “mongrel twins,” the only two of their kind, for decades. But more importantly, she would lose her chance to save her people.

So she relaxed her arms and let him cuff her wrists together, and continued keeping her face averted, her veil in place.

“Move over there,” he said, pointing to the bed.

She did, swearing at him inside her head but never speaking a word aloud.

From somewhere far away she heard Utana, speaking to her with his mind.
If he touches you, call out to me, and I will kill him.

Well, that, at least, was reassuring.

The man with the scar snapped a manacle to her left ankle and affixed the other end to the huge
heavy bed's clawed leg. He had to move the heavy layers of bed curtains aside to even find it.

“That should do.”

She could pick that bed up and hurl it at him if she wanted to, she reminded herself.

He looked at her.

She averted her face and muttered, “Don't even think about it, pal.”

His lips pulled into a smile. “Not before my king, anyway.”

And then he was gone, and she sighed in relief. He hadn't recognized her. Probably couldn't have described her face to another soul if his life had depended on it. Because it wasn't her face that had held his attention.

And for that she was grateful.

Brigit was left to bide her time and wait for Utana to come to her. And to plan what she would do when he did. She wondered why she had to give that any thought at all. She ought to just kill him. She could do so bound as easily as not.

Not immediately, though. She should wait at least until he took the cuffs off, so she could make her getaway when their confrontation was over.

That was her heart talking, though, not her brain. She could burn through the cuffs with the power of pure fiery destruction. She could free herself and blast anyone who dared step into her path as she escaped this house of lies. She didn't need to wait.
She should kill him the minute he stepped through those—

The double doors opened, and Utana stepped through, looking around the room and sending his thoughts to her as clearly as if he were speaking them aloud.

Say nothing, Lady Moonlight. I believe I am observed even here, though I have yet to learn how. Though they worship me as a king, I am not entirely trusting of my new devotees.

Oh, please, tell me you're not buying all this bullshit.
She thought the words at him, even while her mind was elsewhere.

Her throat went dry as she stared at him. God, he was beautiful. Dressed in robes, not makeshift ones made from bedsheets like before, but a fine white tunic, with masses of burgundy satin that looped over one shoulder. He looked like the king he once had been.

And even as she watched, her eyes widening, he lifted the sash over his head. And then the robe. Beneath it was nothing. Utterly nothing. And she couldn't stop her eyes from roaming down his body. His skin was the color of light brown sugar, smooth and probably just as sweet to the taste. His chest was so broad and cut, it was almost ridiculous. His neck was corded, his biceps bulging. He didn't look like an ordinary man—hell, he didn't look like an ordinary vampire. Because he wasn't one, she re
minded herself. He was something else entirely. He looked like a bodybuilder. Every muscle rippling beneath that desert-sun-kissed flesh as he moved slowly closer, his eyes never relinquishing their tractor-beam hold on hers.

Kill him,
her brain told her.
Just call up the power and kill him. Get this over with.

He was near her now, close enough to touch, and he clasped her shoulders, running his hands down her outer arms.

“You are so beautiful.” He whispered the words softly, so no microphone would capture them. “Like no other woman my eyes have seen, Brigit of the Vahmpeers.”

She shivered at his touch, and wanted more in spite of herself.

“We are mortal enemies,” he went on, leaning low, running his lips over her ear and down to her neck. “You have come to kill me, have you not? To finish what you began in those northern woods, where you slept in my arms instead?”

She swallowed hard, telling herself to pull back from his touch, but instead tipping her head back, giving him more access, relishing the feel of his lips on her skin. She shivered as he moved her veil aside and mouthed her neck, loving the sensations rushing through her, making her tremble with delicious pleasure.

“I…I have no choice, Utana.”

He sighed, hot breath caressing her so that her blood felt like thick molten lava.

“Unless…unless you give up this insane quest to wipe out my people.”

“Like you, beautiful one, I have no choice. Know that it is not my will. Know that I feel as if a blade is twisting deep inside my heart when I think of the blood on my hands. Your people—they are my people, too.”

Her eyes burned. “I can't let you kill them.”

“I can't let them live.”

“Utana, please—”

“Shhhh.” His fingers removed the veil from her face. “These are not the words I want between us just now, my lovely moonlight dancer. No. I want sounds of passion from you, sounds of pleasure. Not talk of death.”

“I—” She bit her lip.

“Say it. Do not deny me the truth. Not if I'm destined to return to the living death from which your brother raised me.”

Trembling, she nodded against his head, his face. “I want you, too. God help me, Utana, I've wanted you since I first laid eyes on you.”

“Thank the gods.” He kissed her then, and she fell against him, lifting her arms, despite her handcuffed wrists, to lower them around his neck as she opened to his kiss, fell into it and felt as if she were
plummeting headlong into a bottomless well of utter yearning.

Reaching behind his head, he freed her from the cuffs with no more than a flick of his fingers, never breaking the hold of his lips, his mouth. His hips arched against her, and her stomach knotted tighter, feeling his arousal pressing into her belly.

Nuzzling her neck, he slid his hand downward, breaking the chain that held her ankle…an act that reminded her sharply why had she had not done so herself. “They might be watching us, Utana. You said yourself, you felt observed here,” she said as he moved with her along the side of the bed, and then, his arms around her, lowered her onto it, and himself with her.

The hand that was caressing her shin moved slowly up the outside of her leg, lifting her swirling skirts as it did. With a wave of that strong hand, the heavy curtains surrounding the bed reacted. They moved as if a gust of wind had caught them, closing themselves around the mattress. Closing out the whole world. The war that was raging between vampire and human. The horrible acts he'd committed. The hateful one that she must soon commit. All of that was gone.

“This is an oasis in the harshest desert sands,” he told her. “This time, this place, this moment between us. A paradise we must savor to its fullest, for it will never come again.”

“Yes,” she whispered. She smiled against the top of his head as he moved down the front of her, kissing the swell of her breasts above the tiny top.

“Never have I seen the dance so…enchanting. So powerful. And it…is from my time, not yours.”

“So is the woman who taught me,” she whispered. “Give or take a few thousand years.”

“I shall thank her one day.”

Those words sent a chill through her as a visual appeared in her mind. The image of Utana meeting her beloved aunt Rhiannon—and then blasting her with the beam of his eyes, as he had done to so many others.

Her passion cooled, and she was racked with guilt. “Will you thank her before or after you murder her?”

She pushed against his chest, turning her body to one side as he blinked down at her in confusion. She closed her eyes. “I can't do this. Get off me.”

“Brigit—”

“Get off.” She shoved hard, throwing some of her preternatural strength into it, and he landed on his back beside her. He was breathing hard. Hell, so was she.

She steeled herself, called up that image of Rhiannon being blown to bits in order to fuel her resolve, and got to her feet.

“Are you leaving me, then?” he asked, as she crossed the room toward the door.

“Yes. In a moment, but first…” She couldn't meet his eyes. “I'm sorry, Utana. But there's no other way.” And she lifted her hand, palm up, fingers lightly resting against her thumb, and she called up the power.

“Your heart is harder than I ever imagined,” he whispered.

“Not really,” she told him, tears streaming down her face. “This is going to shatter it. But I have no choice.” And in one act of pure will, she opened the channels, for the power to rise up and shoot from her eyes as she flicked her fingers open. Tears were streaming, but she kept her focus and flinched at the moment when he should have been raining down around her in tiny pieces.

Except nothing happened.

Frowning hard, she stared at her hand, at him sitting there, as realization dawned. He hadn't even moved to defend himself. He'd just sat there, waiting. And he looked furious with her now.

“What…? How…?” She stared at her open palm, feeling no hint of the tingling energy she'd felt her entire life.
You…you took my power?

That night in the forest,
he admitted, speaking mentally, just as she had.
As you keep saying, Brigit, there was no other way. You would have killed me, as you have just proven, or forced me to kill you, and I did not want to do that.

She released a short, clipped breath that was part
exasperated sigh and part bitter laugh, her head lowering. “But you're going to do it anyway. Your imaginary freakin' gods have commanded it, right? And you're not man enough to stand up to them.”