Twilight Prophecy (9 page)

When she looked up from her story, it was to see others gathering around her. Rhiannon was there, along with the cloaked stranger, who was dark and handsome and wearing a formal suit beneath the cape, as if he were embracing his own cliché. The black panther sat upright, its body pressed to Rhiannon’s leg. Brigit was there, too, holding a bowl of fruit and a tall glass of water, which she placed on the table in front of Lucy.

Looking around at them, Lucy saw in their eyes the same fascination she always felt when she told this story, recorded on clay tablets long before the Hebrew Bible and its account of Noah and his ark had even been thought of. They were absorbed, riveted.

“But the thing is,” she said quickly, “it’s just a story. A legend. I mean, yes, the latest geological research shows that there probably was a flood at some point in history, one big enough to leave the impression that it destroyed the world and that only a few chosen ones survived to rebuild, but it was more than likely—”

“And Gilgamesh the King,” James whispered softly. “Tell us his story, Lucy.”

“I thought
you
were going to tell
me
.”

“I will. Indulge me.”

Blinking slowly, she took a grateful sip of the water. The others were making themselves comfortable, too. Rhiannon leaned against the dark man’s shoulder, and his arm went around her. She pressed her free hand to his chest, and the cat lay down, now that she was no longer stroking its head. Brigit perched on the edge of the table, taking an apple from the bowl and biting into it.

“All right, I’ll give you the short version,” Lucy said, unable to resist her favorite topic. “Gilgamesh was a prideful and arrogant king, and not a very kind one, until he met a wild man of the forest called Enkidu, sent to teach him the error of his ways. Enkidu and the king fought when they first met, and were so equally matched that neither could prevail. They fought until they were too exhausted to stand, and in the end, they began to laugh and fell into each other’s arms. From that day on, they were best friends. Enkidu seemed to be the king’s opposite, wild, humble, a man of nature, not of palaces, and humility rather than power. And the king learned from him and became a better person. But when Enkidu was killed, the king lost his mind. He set out across the desert in search of the secret to immortality, hoping he could bring his friend back to life again. That search took him to the home of Utanapishtim, the flood survivor and only known immortal human being.”

Her audience was riveted. She was almost enjoying herself, immersed in this tale that was, after all, her life’s work.

“Utanapishtim gave that secret to him, but as the king set out across the desert again, it was stolen from him by a serpent. And that’s how the story ends.”

“That’s only how you think it ends,” Rhiannon said softly. She straightened away from the dark man, becoming the center of attention. Lucy got the feeling that was usually the case with her. “You see, Utanapishtim had sworn an oath to the gods that he would never share the gift of immortality with another living being. He’d obeyed, even to the point of watching his own family grow old and die, while he lived on, ever young, ever alone.”

Several heads nodded.

Brigit picked up the tale from there. “But he could not refuse the command of his own king. He gave Gilgamesh the gift of immortality—but it didn’t work quite the same way in him, as on the man to whom had been bestowed, because Gilgamesh received it not from the gods but in direct disobedience of their dictates. Gilgamesh became more and more sensitive to sunlight, and he craved human blood, the elixir his new self needed in order to survive. He was, in fact, the first vampire. And yes, he is still alive today.”

Lucy could barely believe it. “I must meet him,” she whispered. And then her gaze shot to the cloaked stranger. “Is it you?”

He smiled, and it was warm, affectionate even. “No, child. Not me. I’m Roland de Courtemanche, and I’m a mere eight centuries old, give or take.” He bowed deeply, and she had to blink her vision clear.

“You will meet Damien. I give you my word,” James said.

She could hardly believe it was possible. “If he’s still alive, then why can’t he translate the tablet for you?”

“It’s a dialect from a different time than his,” James told her.

“And what about Utanapishtim?” she asked, mesmerized by the tale to the point where she had momentarily forgotten that these people were holding her against her will. Or were they?

“He was punished by the gods, who took away his ability to live forever but did not take away his immortality,” James said. “I know that seems like a contradiction, but it’s how the story came down to us. We don’t know what it means. Except that, at that very moment, he began to age, to die. And when King Gilgamesh’s mortal enemy, Anthar, arrived later, having followed the great king and spied on events, he demanded that he, too, be given the gift. Utanapishtim tried to refuse, but that evil one forced him, and then he beheaded the old man, leaving him for dead, and took his faithful servant, a young man barely out of his teens, as his own slave.”

“So this Anthar was…the second vampire.”

“Yes, and he soon made the servant into the third—thinking to make for himself a stronger, more resilient slave. But all that did was allow the boy—a man by then—to escape,” James said.

“And the first thing the boy did,” said Brigit, “was return to the old man’s home to see to his remains. But they were gone.”

“We need to know what happened to Utanapishtim’s remains,” Rhiannon said. “That is why we’ve brought you here. We believe there is a clue on that tablet you’ve been caressing so lovingly throughout this conversation. It’s been among us forever. Even Gilgamesh doesn’t know its source. But we’ve always known to keep it safe, because it would save our race one day.”

“And you believe that day is here.”

Rhiannon nodded slowly. Lucy turned her gaze from the intimidating vampiress to James. “But why do you need to find his remains? Surely there’s nothing left but dust by now. What good can that possibly do you?”

He lowered his head. “Can you translate the tablet for us, Lucy?”

She blinked rapidly. “If I had access to my books, to my notes, to my lab…”

“We’ll get you whatever you need. But the work will have to be done here,” Rhiannon said. “And despite what I said earlier, no harm will come to you. So long as you do as we ask.”

“No harm will come to you either way, Lucy,” James said.

“J.W.” Rhiannon’s tone held a warning.

“No, this is bullshit.” James put a hand on Lucy’s shoulders. “The fact is, Lucy, no one here could hurt you even if they wanted to. They’re incapable of it, compelled to protect you instead, as a matter of fact.”

She frowned up at him. “But why?”

He shrugged. “You’re sort of…related.”

Her frown deepened, but he explained no more. Instead, he dropped down to his knees in front of her chair. “Stay with us, translate this tablet for us, and I give you my solemn vow, you’ll be safe. And as soon as it’s done, I’ll personally return you to your home.”

She couldn’t hold his gaze. If she did, he would hypnotize her into saying yes. They could do that, couldn’t they? So she lowered her eyes and found herself struggling, torn between her fascination with the Sumerian connection, her curiosity about what this tablet might reveal, and her lifelong fear of conflict, of danger, of confrontation, of ever getting involved in…much of anything.

“Do I really have a choice?” she asked softly.

He swallowed hard. “No. I’m afraid you don’t.”

W
hy did something very much like relief flutter through Lucy’s insides just then? Because the decision had been taken out of her hands? Because she couldn’t be brave on her own? Because she knew that not even the most tantalizing opportunity in the world could entice her to overcome her overwhelming cowardice? Yes to all of those, and now, because he’d given her no choice, she didn’t need to search for an inner strength that didn’t exist. She would do this because she had to, and she would be terrified the entire time because that was who she was.

James was turning away now, his head lowered, his hands in his hair. “I hate this, Lucy. This isn’t who I am, and holding you here this way—it’s beyond barbaric. It goes against everything I believe in.”

Lucy frowned, for the first time looking away from her own torment long enough to see that he was not pretending. This was tearing him apart. Or something was.

“No one will hurt you,” he went on. “But we can’t let you go until you do as we ask, Lucy. I’m more sorry than you’ll probably ever know.”

“Shall I just vomit now, or is there a violin solo coming up?” Rhiannon asked, looking from one of them to the other. Roland put his hand on her arm as if to quiet her.

When Lucy did nothing but blink, her mind still on James and the anguish she’d only just now glimpsed in him, along with the hundreds of questions that glimpse had raised, Rhiannon rolled her eyes and went on. “Professor, give Brigit a list of what you need and where we can find it.” As she spoke, she crossed the room to the desk, and then slapped a notepad and freshly sharpened number 2 pencil down in front of Lucy. “Feel free to use the internet. The ISP has been scrambled. You won’t be traced. Be aware, however, that every keystroke is being monitored, so any at tempt to send an SOS will be intercepted. And while J.W. is correct in that we cannot harm you, believe me when I tell you that I can—and will—make your life miserable if you cross me.”

Lucy believed her.

“Just translate the tablet, Lucy,” Brigit said. “We’ll let you go the minute you finish. And that will be faster than anyone could mount a rescue attempt anyway. Besides, just because we can’t hurt you—not that we’d want to,” she went on, “that doesn’t mean we couldn’t do some serious damage to anyone who might come charging to the rescue. And you don’t want innocent people getting killed over this, do you?”

Lucy nodded slowly, understanding that she was completely at their mercy. And wishing she understood why they couldn’t actually hurt her, how she was…related, as James had put it. And more. What were vampires, really? What were their weaknesses? What powers did they possess? Were all the myths true, the crucifixes and holy water and wooden stakes and…?

“Come with me now, J.W.,” Rhiannon said, interrupting her thoughts. “We’re short on time, and your training is about to begin.”

“Take heart, little mortal,” Roland said softly, as he passed her on the way out. “None of us are quite as bad as we seem. And you’ve been told the truth here.”

And with that, they all left the room except for Brigit, who sat at the far end of the table, slouched in a chair. She bit into her half-eaten apple and talked with her mouth full. “You must be pretty pissed off right now. I would be.”

Lucy looked away, refusing to answer. Brigit leaned forward, reaching for the notepad and pencil, pulling them across the table to her. She took another bite and sat back with the pencil poised. “So? Tell me what you need.”

Lucy thought of all the things she needed, and then she thought of the one thing she wanted. She wanted that book by Lester Folsom, the one with the parts of the story these vampires might not be telling her. “My handbag,” she said. “I really can’t even begin until you get me my handbag.”

Brigit frowned, but jotted it down. “I fail to see how your handbag is going to help you translate, but I’ll get it. What else?”

Lucy listed several indispensable reference books from her personal collection. She would have loved to have asked Brigit for some of the volumes at the university, but she didn’t want to drag any of her colleagues into this mess or put anyone else at risk. So she only named the books that could be found in her own little cracker-box house with its marigold-filled flower boxes in the front windows and its marigold carpets lining the walk all the way to the stoop.

She missed her home. Her haven.

“Got it. And that’s upstate, right?”

“Binghamton, yes.”

Brigit frowned but didn’t argue. “I might need to delegate. Anything else?”

“My laptop. It’s there, too, at the house.”

Brigit scribbled on her notepad. “Is that it?”

Lucy nodded. “That’s it.”

“Good. All right, this is going to take some time. Do what you can while I’m gone. Eat some of the fruit I brought you. You must be hungry. And you need to keep your strength up. Also, there’s a bathroom all the way at the end,” she added with a nod toward the door at the back of the office. “You can wander all you want in this section, but don’t go into the main part of the house. We can’t afford to have anyone see movement out there. Okay?”

“Yes. Okay.”

“Okay. See you in a while. Behave.” And with that, Brigit left her alone.

Alone in a crumbling mansion full of vampires and their…kin. In a hidden section, behind a secret wall, translating an ancient dialect under duress.

She couldn’t have made this up if she’d tried.

Brigit drove into the city, parked her car in a no parking zone near the curb and walked three of the remaining four blocks to Studio Three. She stopped there, still a block away. She could see the spot on the sidewalk where the spineless little mortal had been shot down.

She frowned and wondered if she was starting to think a little bit too much like Rhiannon. But then, there was no such thing as too much, in her opinion. Rhiannon was Brigit’s hero. She wanted to be as much like the ageless, timeless vampiress as possible. And even then, she knew she would never compare.

Rhiannon was surely one of the most powerful of her kind, and there was no doubt she was the most arrogant. She was impatient, demanding, intolerant of weakness or whining and she had a temper that could easily explode into violence. But she was good. Deep down, she was good.

Brigit wasn’t. She was the bad twin, always had been. Her brother had been born with the power to heal, to restore life. He’d restored hers—she’d been stillborn. Blue, until he’d wrapped his tiny hand around her fingers, or so the story went.

She, on the other hand, had been born with an opposing power. One she’d been sternly warned not to use, not to play with, not to demonstrate—ever. J.W. was the good one, the hero, the healer, the guy in the white hat. Brigit was little more than a Disney villainess. Every story needed one, after all. She’d accepted her dark nature long ago. She did what she wanted, when she wanted and she made no apologies. There was no point trying to be good. She hadn’t been born with a calling, the way her saintly twin had.

Rhiannon had been the only person in Brigit’s life to encourage her to develop her power. In secret, without the knowledge of her vampire father, Edgar—who preferred to be called Edge, and really, who could blame him?—and her half-vamp, half-mortal mother, Amber Lily—who would have had a breakdown if she’d known, that was how good and pure she was. As a result, she’d become very good at destroying things. Very good. Rhiannon had told her many times that her power, her gift, was every bit as important as her brother’s.

There can be no creation without destruction, child. No life without death. Except for us, of course. No healing power without an illness or injury to heal. Never forget that. He might be the sun, little one, but you, my darling, darkling Brigit…you are the moon.

Brigit smiled as Rhiannon’s deep voice resonated through her mind. Oh, it was bull, of course. Rhiannon only loved her because she was a rebel, a mini-me to the great high priestess. And because her powers of destruction made Rhiannon’s pale by comparison.

Still, she appreciated the lies. They’d made her feel a bit more accepted, more worthy.

Pulling herself back to the task at hand, Brigit resumed eyeing the police tape and uniformed cops up ahead. They’d blocked off that section of the street with sawhorses painted in barber pole stripes, from the spot where Lucy had fallen to the far side of the building where the killings had gone down. The alley where Lucy thought her bag had landed was beyond the barricades. Brigit supposed she could create a distraction, then dash in there. But if she had to do any digging through trash to find it, she was likely going to be caught. And she would really hate to have to kill anyone today. What with brother-dearest home doing his best Jesus Christ impersonation, she had to at least try to refrain from playing the role of Lucifer.

There was another alley running beside the building just this side of Studio Three. A Chinese restaurant and camera supply store flanked it. Seeing no other choice, she made sure no one was noticing her and ducked into it, intending to follow it to the end, pop out a block over and approach the alley she needed from behind.

She only got halfway along it, though, when a man sitting on the ground shook a battered paper coffee cup at her. “Spare change?” he asked.

She pressed her lips together in distaste. He smelled to high heaven; even a full-blooded sensory-deprived mortal would have curled her lip in revulsion at his stench. And his milky sightless eyes were all matted together, dried goo in his long lashes. He had salt-and-pepper whiskers that had an ecosystem of their own going on in their depths, and a splotch of white foam in one corner of his lips.

“Sorry, I’m tapped out.” She kept walking.

“Cryin’ shame. I been waitin’ for you all this time, an’ now you just walk on by.”

Brigit had proceeded a few more steps, but she stopped then, a tingle of awareness dancing up her spine. Turning to look at the old man, she saw that he had a very nice-looking satchel beside him. Brown, leather, with two buckles holding its flap top closed.

“You’ve been waiting for me, have you?” she asked.

“If you’re the one. You got a purpose, have ya? A calling?”

She rolled her eyes. “You must be talking about my brother,” she said, a hint of sarcasm welling up in her chest, though she knew the man was just talking nonsense.

“Nope, nope, nope, I think it’s you. Came for this, didn’t-cha?” He tapped the bag with a flat filthy palm.

She narrowed her eyes. “The one I came for is in the next alley.”

“Was. Till I brought it to this one.”

“Why did you do that?” She stepped a little closer, growing more and more curious about this blind man.

“It’s what I was told to do. Move the bag so those fancy suits snoopin’ around wouldn’t get their hands on it. Hold it here for you. I got the sight, ya see. Not the eyesight, mind’ja. But the sight.”

She frowned, and suddenly she didn’t doubt him for a second. Hell, she’d been raised by vampires. She wasn’t going to doubt a homeless, blind, self-pro-claimed psychic in an alley. Even a skeptical mortal would find this guy a lot easier to swallow than a blood-drinking, night-walking immortal. “You’re some kind of psychic, are you?”

“I see things,” he said. “Seen you. Pretty thing, you are. Hair like sunlight at high noon, real pale. Pale blue seawater eyes. Power, too. Power they wouldn’t even show me. Said I didn’t need to know, but that I’d do well not to piss you off. I ain’t, am I? Pissin’ you off?”

“Depends,” she said. “Are you going to give me the bag?”

“Soon as you tell me one thing. I’m s’posed to ask, you see. To make sure you’re the one. So here it is, little lady. Here’s the question. Makes no sense to me. But here it is, all the same. How were you born?”

“I was born dead,” she replied, quickly and without even thinking about her answer.

He pressed his lips tight, shook his head in apparent wonder. “Damned if that ain’t what they told me you’d say. Alrighty, then, here it is.” He held up the bag.

She took it, surprised by its weight, eager to dig through it to see just what the good professor wanted so badly. But first, she thought she ought to give the old guy something for his trouble. She dug in her pockets, finding a handful of crumpled bills she’d forgotten were there, and, leaning forward, she pressed them into his hand. “Take this for your trouble,” she said.

“No need.”

“Take it,” she said. And then she smiled a little. “Or you’ll piss me off.”

“Well, now, I guess I don’t wanna do that. I thank you, little lady. An’ I’ll tell you one last thing before you go—which you’d best do soon, since those suits are headin’ this way as we speak.”

She looked up and down the alley, but saw and sensed no one.

“You do have a callin’, a purpose,” the old man told her. “You do. An’ it’s a big one.”

Brigit’s throat went tight and her eyes burned, even as her mind muttered bullshit.

“Go on now. Git.”

“I’m already gone,” she told him, and then she was. But as she headed back along the sidewalk toward her car, she spotted the suits hurrying down the side walk, intent on the old man’s alley. And she had no doubt they had counterparts on the other end. The old fuck had been dead-on balls accurate about those suits heading their way.

Damn. How, then, could he have been so wrong about her?

She hefted the bag’s strap up onto her shoulder and picked up the pace.

James followed Rhiannon back through the false wall and into the main part of the dilapidated mansion. Through the bedroom into the second story corridor, and then down the curving staircase into the foyer that had once been fit for royalty.

She led him down another hallway, where the plaster was disintegrating. His steps crushed fallen chunks of it into fine white powder that stuck to his shoes, and the bare lath showed through the walls like the skeleton beneath a corpse’s skin.

Funny that he’d chosen that particular mental image, he thought, as she led the way into the pitch-dark basement and yet another hidden room that he knew had once been the laboratory of vampire scientist Eric Marquand. But then something caught hold of his attention. A scent, and a sense, too. Death. There was death here.