Twilight Prophecy (10 page)

He stood motionless, straining his eyes in the darkness. “My night vision isn’t as good as yours, Rhiannon, but I don’t like what I’m sensing down here.”

A light flared, but not from a match. The candles on a nearby stand came to life, the wicks smoldering and then bursting into flame one by one under the power of Rhiannon’s intense stare.

Not a vampiric skill, that little trick. That bit was hers alone. The daughter of a Pharaoh and a high priestess of Isis, “Rianikki” knew secrets and possessed powers none of them would ever equal—a fact she wasn’t likely to let anyone forget.

“Your first guinea pig awaits you,” she said softly, lifting the candelabra and moving toward a table in the center of the room.

The flickering yellow light fell upon a dead woman, her body still and pale and wet. He lowered his head, closing his eyes against the sight. “Shit, Rhiannon, what have you done?”

“Oh, please. I didn’t kill her. In fact, knowing your fondness for the weaker race, I asked Roland to find our first candidate.”

“Roland brought her here?” James’s reluctance lifted a little. Rhiannon’s mate wasn’t as ruthless or cruel as she was. He was, in fact, calm, logical and kind.

“Yes, and I’ve sent him out to bring more. As for this one…” She nodded at the corpse. “She’s thirty-three, married, a mother of two. Her car skidded off the road into an isolated lake a little over a day ago. Roland pulled her body out only hours ago, after I told him we needed a freshly dead mortal for your experiments.”

James stared at the woman. Her hair had dried in tangles, and there was mud caking on her still damp clothes. But her skin was blue. She was clearly dead and far beyond saving.

“Well?” Rhiannon asked. “Go on, do that voodoo that you do so well. We haven’t got all night.”

He dragged his eyes away from the dead mother. “Rhiannon, I can’t.”

“Oh, please. You can. You used to run along the beach picking up dead starfish and healing them before tossing them back into the waves. When you were three, you did this.”

“Newly dead. And starfish are not human beings. It’s not…it’s not the same.”

“How is it different?”

“What if she’s…you know…in heaven, or—”

“If she’s in heaven, J.W., then she will return to heaven again in short order. The human lifetime is little more than the flash of a firefly in length. You won’t be taking that from her, just rearranging her schedule a bit. Think of her husband, her children, if that helps ease your ridiculously overdeveloped sense of morality.”

“No, Rhiannon, that would be playing God.” He looked at the dead woman again, shaking his head.

“That’s what I said at first,” said a deep voice from behind them.

James turned, spotting Roland standing there in his traditional getup. He was the only vampire James had ever known who actually wore a black cape and a dark suit.

“I thought you’d gone for more bodies,” Rhiannon chided, but gently, lovingly.

“I prefer to see how this goes first.” He nodded. “And to say a proper hello to you, James.”

James moved toward the man, who was centuries older, but didn’t look a day over thirty and never would. “I’m sorry I didn’t greet you properly upstairs,” James said. “I was distracted.”

“I could see that.” The two embraced, Roland hugging hard and clapping James on the back. “It’s been too long, J.W.”

“It has. And I’m sorry.”

Roland released him. “No apologies. We each have our own path to walk. But I’m glad you’re here now. We need you, J.W. And as distasteful as this task seems, it is my belief that you have to do it. I’m convinced that your woman’s interpretation of that Sumerian prophecy is correct, even more so than I was before.”

“She’s not my woman.” James lowered his head, feeling his face heat and wondering why. “She hates me at the moment, and I don’t particularly blame her.”

Roland opened his mouth, closed it again. “That’s beside the point. The tablet she translated predicts that the world of men will find out about us—and that has happened. It predicts war breaking out—and that, too, is unfolding as we speak. And then it predicts the end of our kind, James, and says that only Utanapishtim can save us.”

“I get that, but I don’t see how this is going to—”

“Because,” Rhiannon interrupted, “we’re going to find his remains, and you are going to restore him to life. Therefore, you must begin pushing your powers to their absolute limits and beyond. Making them stronger, until you can do this thing and save your people.”

James looked from Rhiannon to Roland. “And you believe this is a good idea, as well?”

Roland lowered his eyes. “Not good, no. But necessary, yes. Since you were ten years old, you’ve been asking why. Why were you born with this power to heal? What was its purpose? Now you know, J.W. Now you know. You are the only one who can save us. And it begins here. With her.” He nodded toward the corpse.

James fought against a full body shudder, but he moved closer to the table, to the dead woman lying there. “And if I manage to wake her, then what?”

“Then we try a corpse that’s been dead a bit longer,” Rhiannon said. “A week. And then a month. And then—”

“What happens to her?”

Roland’s hand closed on James’s shoulder from behind. “I’ll tend to her. I’ll take her to the shore of the lake where her car still lies. I’ll erase her memory of us, arrange for a mortal to discover her there.”

“Her family will be notified,” Rhiannon whispered from his other side. “Her husband and children will meet her at some hospital, and there will be tears of joy. They would thank you on their knees if they knew what you were about to do for them, J.W. That should appeal to your hero complex nicely, if saving your own kind is not enough.”

James looked at her sharply. “You just can’t let up, can you?”

She narrowed her eyes, telling him without a word that he had better watch his step. He held her gaze without flinching.

“I believe this is necessary. And I’ve consulted with the elders of our race,” Roland went on. “Eric, Dante and Sarafina, Vlad, even Gilgamesh himself—”

“My parents and grandparents?”

He nodded. “Yes. Edge and Amber Lily, Jameson and Angelica—they’ve been consulted. We all agree. This is the only way.”

Drawing a deep breath, James nodded and moved closer to the table. He held his hands over the dead woman and closed his eyes. He focused his energy, and he felt the warmth begin, the tingling in his palms, the heat and light that emanated from them…it all happened just as it always did, though it took a little longer, and he seemed to have to dig more deeply for the energy.

He felt Rhiannon and Roland watching him, but he paid no attention to them. His entire focus was on the woman, on her spirit, on restoring its connection to her physical body, on healing the damage done by twenty-four hours without oxygen or blood flow, and by the water in her lungs.

His muscles tensed as the energy moved through him and into her. And then they tensed more. And then, suddenly, there was a release. A rush shot from his core and out through his palms with so much force that he felt a slight recoil effect pushing him away. He stumbled back a step or two, and then Roland caught him from behind. He felt drained, as if the energy he’d pushed into the corpse had come directly from him instead of just through him.

And then he opened his eyes and stared at the table.

The woman was stirring, her eyes moving beneath her closed lids. Her body began to tremble, her head to thrash and then her eyes flew open and she blinked in stunned terror.

Stumbling close to her again, James put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe now. You’re perfectly safe. Do you know who you are?”

She blinked blankly a few times and then said, “I’m…Ellen. Ellen Gainsboro.” She looked around the darkened room. “Where are my boys? Where’s my husband? Who are you?”

James smiled in relief and nodded at Roland.

The cloaked vampire moved closer. “You’re going to sleep now, Ellen,” he said, his voice melodic, hypnotic, irresistible. “And when you wake, you’ll be with your family again. You’ll rest easily until you hear their voices, and that’s when you’ll awake, relaxed and happy. You will not remember me, nor anyone you’ve seen in this room, nor the room itself. You’ll sleep until you hear those beloved voices, and then you’ll awake to the most blissful joy you’ve ever known. Do you understand?”

Her eyes were already closing as she whispered, “Yes.”

And that would have been comforting to James, if Rhiannon hadn’t immediately said, “We’re going to need more bodies, Roland. You can’t put it off any longer now.”

“On my way, love,” Roland replied, clapping James on the shoulder as he left the basement, carrying the sleeping woman in his arms.

James staggered a few steps backward, stunned by what he’d just managed to do. He leaned against the wall and wished this task had fallen to anyone else but him.

A
fter Brigit left, list in hand, Lucy worked on the translation for the better part of two hours, until her eyes were beginning to glaze over and water from the strain. She longed for her glasses. Her nerves were jumping with frustration. She was as curious about what the tablet had to say as any of them—though not because she thought it would prevent the extinction of their species, admittedly. Still, a new tablet was always a cause for excited anticipation. And yet there was very little she could do without her books and her notes. Oh, she knew several of the more common words, but it was almost always the uncommon ones that told the story, and without those, there was no context for the bits and pieces she knew by sight.

Eventually, she felt sure, she would fall asleep there at the table if she didn’t get up and move around at least a bit. She decided to explore the rest of the house. Not the entire house, of course, just the hidden, secret section—behind the walls, beneath the stairs. It was all very much like something out of a Nancy Drew mystery.

Still, Brigit had told her to make herself at home, to look around freely, but not to emerge from the secret depths of the crumbling old mansion, and she’d decided she had nothing to lose by obeying. She didn’t want to rock the boat or do anything to anger these people. She didn’t want to defy them or fight with them. She wasn’t a rebel plotting a coup. She just wanted to go home. And the simplest path to that goal, as far as she could see, was to just do what they wanted, and hope they would keep their promise when she finished and send her on her way.

Beyond the big room, with the computer and conference table, the room she thought of as the office, other rooms led into each other like a long railroad flat. No hallway in between. There wasn’t room for one. The rooms were all shaped the same, long and narrow, and they followed the outline of the house all the way around two sides, as nearly as she could figure. The room beside the office was a kitchen of sorts. It held a fridge and some cupboards, a microwave, but no range. There was a sink, too, with running water. Relief flooded her at the sight of the fridge. She was hungry—Brigit’s offering had filled her briefly, but she craved something more solid than fruit. Tummy rumbling, she opened the refrigerator to see what was inside, then gasped and slammed it shut again.

Bags of blood with the Red Cross logo on the front. Deep red fluid within. God.

Her hunger pangs turned into queasiness, and she didn’t explore the kitchen any further. She left it behind, going to the room after it, which was a bedroom. Tall false windows with glass one couldn’t see through. She noticed the big locks on the doors between the rooms and, although they were unlocked at the moment, she shuddered at the implication.

Next in line was another bedroom. There were four of them, all told, each one arranged the same way, each one with locks on both its doors.

The final room’s door was closed, but as she approached it, the door swung open, revealing a bathroom and James, who paused in the act of exiting it, spotting her and going still.

He looked…tired. Tired enough that she had to wonder what could have happened to him in the two hours since she’d seen him last. Not to mention how he’d gotten into the secret section of the house without walking past her. There must be another entrance somewhere, she realized, and filed that knowledge away for future use. His hair was tousled and damp, as was his face, as if he’d been splashing water on it in an effort to wake himself up.

“Lucy,” he said with a nod. “Sorry if you’ve been waiting.”

“I haven’t been.” She tipped her head to one side. “Are you all right?”

“What?” He blinked at her, his expression distracted, and then seemed to digest her question. “Oh. Yeah. Why?”

“You look…worn out.”

He didn’t meet her eyes. “No, I’m good. I was just leaving you a note, actually.”

“A note?”

He stepped aside, to let her enter the bathroom. It was almost as big as the bedrooms, and painted a minty shade of green. There was a huge tub with clawed feet and brass fixtures, including a tall, old-fashioned showerhead and a wrap-around rod for the curtain. There was a matching toilet and sink, both ivory colored, with those same brass faucets. An antique stand with a green and black swirling marble top stood beside the lav, and it was littered with bottles. Shampoos and conditioners, soaps and soaks, lotions and perfumes.

“Looks like the best-stocked room in the house,” she said softly. “And you said something about a note?”

He nodded past her toward a brown wicker hamper with a pile of clothing stacked on it and a note lying on top. A single sheet of unlined vellum, folded once, with her name on the outside.

Frowning, she turned back toward him, curious, but just as she did, his knees seemed to buckle and he grabbed hold of the door frame to keep from falling. Lucy found herself reaching for him before she could stop herself. She slid her arms beneath his and held him to her. “Easy,” she said. “God, what has Rhiannon been making you do?”

“Only what’s necessary.” His hands closed on her shoulders, and he pulled away slightly, but at that moment she lifted her head and he lowered his. Their eyes met, locked. Her arms were around his waist, and it felt for all the world as if they were embracing.

For a moment, just one breathless moment, she thought maybe he was going to kiss her. It felt like a kiss in the making. Not that she’d experienced many of those. And unbelievably, she was craving it, already feeling his mouth, tasting his lips, in her mind.

And then he straightened and the moment was broken.

“I’m…well, there’s the note.”

“Yes, I…” Silence was better than stammering. She let her arms fall to her sides and stepped away from his warmth, picking up the note, unfolding and reading it.

Lucy nodded, and felt her heart soften toward James Poe. She thought he really meant those words. She thought he was truly torn by what he was being asked to do, pushed to do, by his family. She supposed she could understand that.

“Thank you. That was…most considerate.” She lifted her head to meet his eyes, but he was gone. She leaned through the doorway, looking back the way she’d come, but there was no sign of him. He must move like a ninja, she thought.

More like a vampire, her mind whispered. Don’t forget what he is—part monster. And a kidnapper, too. Don’t trust him for a minute, Lucy.

She disliked the voice in her head, because it made utter sense, and she would have preferred not to hear it at all. She could easily believe the others were monsters, driven by their own sense of self-preservation. Especially the vampire queen, if that was indeed what Rhiannon was. Lucy disliked her intensely, distrusted her utterly and feared her more than both together.

But she wasn’t sure just yet what she thought of James. He seemed to be a decent man, pressed into a bad situation. He seemed different from the others. Even from his sister. And maybe he’d been trying to break away from them, to lead a normal life, given the fact that he’d been living away from them and had been out of touch, much to their dismay, for quite some time. Trying to exist as a human? To pass? she wondered. Trying to embrace his humanity and shun his inner beast?

Not that it mattered to her. Not in the least.

Still, she availed herself of his apparent kindness and took a long, hot shower, which eased her aching muscles and cleared her still-foggy head. And then she got out, wrapped herself up in a decadently soft, cushy towel and took a look at the clothes he had left for her.

Jeans. Low-rise jeans that fit far more snugly than the waist-high, relaxed-fit style she wore at home, when she wore jeans at all. A tiny black T-shirt, with its sleeves and collar ripped out. It had been cut off, too, so that it revealed most of her midriff when she pulled it on. It was as far as possible from anything she would have found in her own closet at home. There were socks, and a pair of what could only be described as high-heeled army boots. The four-inch heels were thick and chunky, but there was a good two-inch platform, too, so the angle of her foot remained fairly comfortable. The boots laced up over most of her calf and had buckles besides.

These had to have been taken from Brigit’s wardrobe. Lucy felt so uncomfortable it was ridiculous.

No mirror. Of course there were no mirrors. It was just as well, she probably looked awful. She wound her damp hair up into its customary bun and walked back through the secret rooms, past the blood-filled fridge, to the office, wobbling on the high heels and tugging constantly on the shirt.

God, she wanted to go home.

Well, then, she supposed, the best thing was to get back to work. She took a seat at the table, opened the notepad, squinting without her glasses, and got busy.

An hour later Brigit was back, tossing Lucy’s long-lost satchel onto the table.

“Nice try,” the sweet-looking blonde with the dominatrix wardrobe said. Then she dropped the book Mr. Folsom had given Lucy right beside the satchel. “I presume this is what you really wanted?”

What she really wanted, Lucy thought, setting her pencil carefully on the table, was whatever smelled so good in the white takeout bag Brigit still held.

And to read that book.

“I thought I’d like to know a little more about the race I’m being forced to help save.”

“Yeah, well, you’d better get on it, or there won’t be a race left to need your help. The existence of vampires is the hottest topic going right now, thanks to the bits and pieces of this book that have leaked. At least from what I heard on the car radio on the way back here. Vigilante groups are popping up all over the country, and innocent people are dying.”

“Innocent vampire people or innocent ordinary people?” Lucy asked.

“Innocent is innocent, bookworm. But to answer your question, both.”

“I’m sorry if that sounded…bigoted. I didn’t mean it to. And I’m sorry your people are suffering.”

“Your people, too.”

Sighing, Lucy eyed the book again. “Maybe there are some answers in here.” She reached for it, but Brigit snatched it before she could pick it up.

“Not so fast. Let’s see what Rhiannon has to say about this. Besides, anything you want to know, you can just ask. And you don’t have time for leisure reading right now, anyway. We need that prophecy translated ASAP. Understand?”

Lucy frowned, tilting her head to one side. “You seem upset.”

“You think?” Brigit sighed, shook her head, then dropped the fast food bag on the table at last. “Figured you’d be as starved as I am. My relatives may have the house well stocked with sustenance for them, but I doubt there’s much food fit for human consumption around here.”

“True enough. I’ve heard they never drink…wine.”

Brigit went stone silent, staring at her for a long moment before asking, “Did you just make a Dracula joke?”

Lucy nodded. The smells emanating from that bag were making her mouth water and her brain senselessly joyful. “I think so, yes.” She opened the bag, grabbing the fries first. The colder they got, the more they tasted like salty cardboard.

“He’s real, you know,” Brigit said while Lucy ate.

“Who is?”

“Dracula.”

Lucy stopped with a French fry between her teeth and stared at Brigit, wide-eyed.

“Vlad Tepish. Of course, that wasn’t his original name.” Brigit bit her lip. “And I’m telling you more secrets than Folsom’s book probably will.” She looked Lucy up and down. “I see you did as I suggested and took a look around the place while I was gone.”

Lucy nodded. “I took a shower. The clean clothes are…appreciated. I presume they’re yours.”

“De nada
. I told J.W. to take whatever he thought you could use. The rest of the stuff you asked for should be arriving shortly. I sent someone who could move a little faster than I can, and I asked them to bring back some of your own clothes, as well.” She grinned. “Though you really do have a bod under all your starch and tweed. You should show it off more.”

Lucy thought she should say thanks, but she was too busy blushing. Since when did women talk that way to one another?

“Shit, you think that’s bad, wait till my brother gets a load of you in that getup.” Brigit nodded at the bag. “Go on, eat your junk food.”

“Um…did you bring some for…your brother?”

Brigit frowned, tilting her head to one side. “Yeah. Sure I did. Why do you ask?”

Lucy shook her head, averting her eyes, not wanting to reply and not sure why. She shouldn’t be concerned about the well-being of her captor. Was this the beginning of Stockholm Syndrome? No, it was far too soon, and yet… She wanted to like him. She wanted this odd and inexplicable—yet entirely undeniable—attraction she felt for him to be…okay. He’d seemed exhausted, worn out, run down, after only a few hours with Rhiannon and her notion of his “training,” whatever that entailed. But she couldn’t tell Brigit she was worried about him, not without giving herself away.

She prayed he was good and not evil. She wanted to think of him as her hero again.

“I just…figured he’d be hungry, too,” she finally said, and it was lame, but it was the best she could do.

Brigit was eyeing her curiously. “Nothing to worry about. I brought him a ton.”

Time for a subject change, Lucy decided. “I’ve, um—I’ve actually already begun translating. Just a word here and there, the ones I recognize without my notes.”

Brigit looked at the notebook where Lucy had been copying the cuneiform line for line, leaving blank lines in between for her translation. A few simple words already occupied those blanks. Simple conjunctions like
and, to, with, the,
and a few more meaningful words like
ancient, death, murder,
and the names
Utanapishtim
and
Ziasudra.