Twilight Fulfilled

She must have given away her gut-level reaction to his words, because he averted his eyes, and added, “As fairly and humanely as is practical, of course.”

“Of course,” she said.

He nodded. “You will act as the conduit between the CIA and the Senate. You’ll gather all the information available and ride herd on the man in charge of this mess, Nash Gravenham-Bail. Freaking mouthful. Rest assured, he isn’t going to accept your involvement easily. You’re going to have to ride him hard, do your own digging, know when he’s holding back and how much and push for more.”

“Get him to tell me everything. I understand.”

Rafe Polenski shook his head. “Gravenham-Bail will never tell you everything. But get as much as you can. Bring the rest of us up to speed, put together your committee members and with them, come up with a plan of action for us to consider.”

She blinked three times, shook her head and looked away.

“Well? What do you have to say?”

She drew a breath, opened her mouth, closed it again and drew another, searching her mind for words as her brain clogged itself up with questions. Clearly no one in their right mind would want to take this on. This was the modern-day equivalent, she thought, of the Bureau of Indian Affairs, and God knew that hadn’t gone too well. For the Indians, at least.

Vampires. Good God. Vampires.

They were pushing this assignment onto a junior senator from the Midwest. Someone they thought was too naive to know better. Someone easily manipulated, easily controlled. She was none of those things. But she hadn’t been in office long enough for them to realize it. She knew exactly what was happening here. This wasn’t going to succeed, and someone was going to have to take the fall when the shit hit the fan. She had just been appointed to be the one.

She knew all of that.

And she also knew that she couldn’t turn the post down. One did not turn down Senator Rafe Polenski. The man was a legend.

“Well?” he asked, waiting, already knowing her inevitable answer.

She met his calculating eyes, and knew she was well and truly trapped. But maybe knowing what was going on would give her an advantage. Maybe she could outwit the snowy fox himself and live to tell the tale. Maybe she was a little smarter than this old-school, old-boy network member knew.

“Your decision, Senator MacBride?” he asked pointedly.

“Scratch the coffee,” she said. “I’ll have vodka.”

Mount Bliss, Virginia

Jane Hubbard exited a taxi, and stood looking at the front of a massive and beautiful building. Winged angels made of stone flanked the tall, wrought-iron gate, which had opened to let the taxi enter. It had proceeded along a circular drive with a giant fountain in the center, where a statue of the beautiful St. Dymphna stood, holding a lighted oil lamp—with a real flame, no less—in one hand, like something straight out of Aladdin, and a sword in the other. The sword pointed downward, its tip piercing a writhing dragon at her feet, and water spurted upward from the slain serpent, arching gently back down again into the pool below.

The building had once been known as the St. Dymphna Asylum, as attested by those very words engraved into the white stonework above the entry doors, but was now known as the St. Dymphna Psychiatric Hospital. A more modern sign just beyond the gates said so.

But the place didn’t look modern. It looked a century old. Maybe two. And as comforting as the angels and the saint were, Jane felt a shiver of apprehension when she studied the chain-link fence that enclosed the manicured lawns.

Melinda, at her side, squeezed her hand. “It’ll be like a vacation, right, Mommy?”

“That’s right, honey. That’s right.”

Jane had no reason to mistrust her government. The official who had shown up at her door had been female and kind. She’d known about Melinda’s condition—the rare Belladonna Antigen in her blood. Jane had known, too. She’d known that the condition made her baby bleed like a hemophiliac. She’d known that it made donors extremely hard to find. And she’d known that it meant her daughter, now seven, probably wouldn’t live to see forty.

What she hadn’t known—had never even suspected—was that it made her a favorite target of creatures that were not supposed to exist. Vampires, the federal agent had told Jane, were real. All the hype in the news of late had been true. And while most of the monsters had been killed by the vigilante movement sweeping the nation, there were still some at large. Any human being who possessed the Belladonna Antigen was at very great risk of being victimized by them.

Especially now that humans and vampires were virtually at war.

And so the government had set up a haven for these rare humans, a place where they could go and be protected, cared for and absolutely safe, until this vampire problem was under control.

Jane would do anything to protect her little girl. It was the just the two of them. Had always been. Melinda was special. She was more special than even the government or her own doctors knew. Jane had always protected her.

And that was what she was doing now. Protecting Melinda.

Holding her little girl’s tiny hand, she stepped through the arching, churchlike, wooden double doors of St. Dymphna’s, and wished she could shake the feeling that she was making a terrible mistake.

2

Coastal Maine

Brigit sat in the library of the beautifully restored Maine mansion that had been the home of a pair of vampires who were now among the missing: Morgan and Dante. She thought, however, that the simple fact their home was still standing was a very good sign. If it hadn’t been burned, then their neighbors probably hadn’t yet branded them vampires and decided to murder them in their sleep. No roaming band of vigilantes had yet targeted them.

Morgan’s mortal sister, Max, and her husband, Lou, had lived there, as well. Having an identical twin who was mortal was probably an extremely good cover, Brigit thought. But they had headed for safer ground, not wanting to be accidentally executed, as a great many innocent mortals had been.

Their brethren must consider it collateral damage when they killed their own. If a body remained after the fire, then the victim must have been innocent. If no body was found, the victims had clearly been vampires and burned to ash. That thinking made as much sense as witch dunking. If you drowned, you were innocent. Oops.

The de Silva mansion was empty but intact. The power was still on. The house had heat and indoor plumbing, phone and internet. It was all good. Brigit wished she could stay.

But she had an assignment, and it wasn’t going to be a pleasant one.

As the elders filed in, all of them having changed into dry clothes, and pink with the flush of a recent meal, Brigit waited, wondering what they would have to say to her.

Rhiannon entered first, wearing one of her signature gowns, floor-length, thigh-high slit, plunging neckline. This one was teal-green, a color Brigit hadn’t seen on her before. It went well with her raven hair. She was far more than an elder vampiress. She was Rianikki, a priestess of Isis, daughter of a pharaoh. She knew about magic and could do things no other vampire could.

Behind her came her beloved Roland de Courtemanche in his old-school tux and black satin cloak. Probably unwise of him to keep wearing something that might as well have been a flashing Vampire Here sign, but that was his call. He’d been a medieval warrior knight, was wise beyond questioning and had a fierce side that he kept very well contained.

Eric Marquand, Roland’s best friend, came next. A nobleman, a physician and a scientist, Eric had nearly been beheaded during the French Revolution. Roland had visited him in his cell on the night before he was slated to meet the guillotine, saving his life and making him over.

Sarafina, the beautiful, fiery Gypsy, came last, skirts and scarves trailing, bangles and earrings jingling as she moved. She was the missing Dante’s aunt, but more like a sister to him. And worry marred her brow.

The four sat at a table, embodying more than four thousand years of living, of wisdom, of knowledge. And yet there were some troubling absences among the elders of their kind. Damien, the first vampire, once known as Gilgamesh. The Prince, who had become known as Dracula down through the ages. They’d struck out separately with their respective mates to try to locate survivors and bring them to safety. But it wasn’t safe out there. Not even for them.

Although these ancient mighty beings who surrounded her now had practically raised her, Brigit saw them through fresh eyes on this night. She felt awe at their presence, their power, and found herself bowing her head slightly before taking her own chair at the long table.

It was Rhiannon who began, with a story that Brigit already knew by heart.

“Utanapishtim, Ziasudra, onetime Priest King of the land of Sumer, was beloved of the gods, and so when they sent the great flood to wipe out mankind, he alone was spared. In return for his loyalty, the gods bestowed upon him the gift of immortality. There was only one caveat—he must never attempt to share the gift with any other human.”

Rhiannon fell silent, her gaze sliding, adoringly but solemnly, to Roland, who nodded once and picked up the tale. “The great king Gilgamesh—the man we know today as Damien—was in deep mourning for his best friend, Enkidu, who was more than a brother to him. Enkidu was like the king’s shadow self—like a twin who is opposite and yet the same,” he said, with a meaningful look straight into her eyes.

Brigit understood.

“King Gilgamesh blamed himself for Enkidu’s death. He wanted only to find a way to restore life to his friend. And so he wandered into the desert in search of the only immortal—the flood survivor. And he found him. The king commanded that Utana share the gift of immortality with him, so that he could share it, in turn, with Enkidu.”

Roland stopped there, turning to Sarafina, who took up the thread. “Utana could not refuse his king, and so he gave him the gift. But despite becoming immortal himself, King Gilgamesh could not recover his friend from the Abode of the Dead. And because Utana had disobeyed the gods, he was cursed. His eternal life was taken from him—but his immortality was not. And later, when he was murdered by an evil one, Utana died but did not die. We know now that his spirit remained, trapped with his ashes, lo these five thousand years.”

Eric took over from Sarafina at her gentle nod. “There came to light a prophecy, a stone tablet from Utana’s time, that told of the destruction of the vampire race and suggested that only by raising Utanapishtim from the dead could it be averted. This prophecy spoke of the twins who were neither vampire nor human but both combined, the two who are like no other and yet opposites, who would save our kind. But parts of the tablet were missing. Broken. Hidden away, so its true meaning was unclear.”

Eric then looked at Brigit, holding her eyes until she knew she was supposed to fill in the rest. She cleared her throat, nodding. “And so the good twin, the one who was born with the gift of healing, found Utana’s ashes and restored life to him. But Utana’s mind was warped from thousands of years of imprisonment, and he turned on his own people, decimating the vampire race he had never intended to create. And those who remain believe it is only the evil twin, who was born with the power of destruction, who can return him to the grave—his prison—and save what few remain of vampire-kind.”

Everyone in the room nodded.

Rhiannon spoke again. “Utana believes that he can only be free of his curse by undoing the wrong he committed so long ago. He thinks he has to wipe us out, so that when he dies again, he will move on to the afterlife, rather than returning to the horror of the living death where he spent more than five thousand years.”

“I know.”

“We know very little about his strengths, his powers,” Rhiannon said. “Except that he can blast a beam of light from his eyes that is much like the explosive beam you yourself can project.”

“And that he can take the powers from others,” Brigit added, with a look toward the closed door, beyond which her brother lingered, somewhere, with their parents, Edge and Amber Lily, and the others. “We know that, because he took J.W.’s healing gift away from him.”

Everyone nodded sadly.

“We don’t know how to kill him in a way that will free his spirit,” Roland said softly. “We only know that the first time he died, he was beheaded and his body cremated, at least according to the tablets. And while it grieves all of us to think we might be condemning him—our own forebear—to return to that nightmarish state, he has left us with no other choice.”

Brigit nodded. “I know.”

“We also know,” Eric said, “that he can sense us, feel us, just as we can detect the presence of one another, and of the Chosen. There’s a bond, a connection. We believe that he is using that bond to follow us, even now.”

Brigit frowned; this was the first she’d heard of that. “What makes you think so?”

Eric rose, crossing the room to take a remote control from a nearby shelf and aiming it toward an elaborately carved, antique-looking cherrywood armoire. The armoire’s doors swung open, revealing a large, state-of-the-art flat-screen TV. Eric thumbed another button to turn it on, and another to activate the DVR and choose a local news broadcast from a few hours earlier.

Captioned “Bangor, Maine,” with today’s date beside it, footage panning the interior of a demolished restaurant played out on the screen. Then the scene switched to show a S.W.A.T. team surrounding a delivery truck on a street that had been closed down, as a grim-voiced reporter explained, “An apparently mentally disturbed man trashed Succulence, a four-star restaurant in Bangor, this evening. The assailant took only food, but injured several people and caused enormous damage to the business. Police believe they now have this obviously dangerous man cornered in the back of a delivery truck a few blocks away from the restaurant. This is live coverage of the S.W.A.T. unit, as they slowly close in on the truck and—”

“No,” Brigit said, getting to her feet, talking to the TV as if it would help. “No, no, get them out of there!”

A hand fell on her shoulder, and Roland said, “This is a recording, child. It’s already happened.”

The cops took cover and took aim, as someone lifted a bullhorn to order the man to come out with his hands up.

Brigit watched as the truck doors opened and Utana appeared. She’d seen the man before, but never looking like he did then. His makeshift garment—a toga made from a bed sheet—was torn, wet and filthy, his long black hair hanging in dripping straggles, his face shadowed by a wild-looking beard, his eyes dangerous.

He looked like she imagined Moses had, after his encounter on Mount Sinai.

And then she could see nothing but the beam that emanated from his eyes just before the picture went to snow. The screen flicked back to the somber, too-tanned face of an anchor at the news desk. “Our camera crew survived, and though they got additional footage, we can’t show you more, out of respect for the families of the seventeen officers who were wiped out by whatever unknown weapon this madman was wielding. Frankly, it’s just too gruesome for television. The man is still at large, and the National Guard has been called in to help with the hunt.”

Brigit stared at the screen long after Eric had shut off the television.

“You have to stop him, Brigit.”

She nodded. “And what are all of you going to do? You can’t stay here. He’s too close. He won’t stop until he finds you.”

“We’re moving,” Roland said. “The plantation in Virginia is isolated enough in the Blue Ridge Mountains that it should be safe … at least for a little while. We don’t want to go too far until we’ve eliminated this threat and gathered as many of our own together as we can find. After that, we’ll likely be forced to leave the country for a location more remote and isolated than anything the U.S. has to offer in this day and age. We’re exploring several options now. But that’s not for you to worry about.”

“You have only one task to focus on,” Rhiannon said. “Find the first immortal. Find him … and kill him.”

Downtown Bangor, Maine

Utana had sensed the soldiers surrounding his temporary haven. All he had wanted was a meal, and a dry place in which to eat it. And he’d found both, though he had been surprised by the resistance of the food vendors when it came to sharing their bounty. Taking it by force had seemed ridiculous. Did they not realize he was a king? He had left the establishment in a mess, but it would be easily restored. He’d broken a table, perhaps some of the strange pottery food-vessels, as well. He’d had to use force on some of the humans. The mortals. That was what James of the Vahmpeers had called the ordinary ones. Mortals. Utana had intended them no harm, had used no more force than was necessary.

Well, perhaps a bit more than was necessary. He’d been agitated. And half-starved.

But then he’d found a shelter and filled his belly with the food, and he had never eaten its equal. Never. It was luscious, fit for the gods. He’d found a comfortable spot in the corner of the box that contained him, and he’d curled up, intent on napping, despite the fact that his clothes were still wet and he was shivering with cold.

And then, just as he’d been about to nod off into the world of dream journeys, he’d felt them all around him. He’d felt their fear of him, their hatred and their intentions. His punishment for taking a meal without compensation was to be death, it seemed. They carried weapons, he sensed it. And he knew by the vibrations in the very ether between them and himself that those weapons would be used on him without hesitation.

Yes. There was no question. He felt it. Violence. Barely contained, crouching like a tiger about to spring.

And so he had no choice. He wanted nothing from these humans. He meant them no harm whatsoever. It was his own race he must wipe from existence, not theirs. All he intended was to eat, to sleep and to be on his way. This devastation he was about to unleash was entirely their own doing.

Sighing in resolution, and with no small regret, he had opened the doors of his haven and meted out justice. He’d focused the beam from his eyes on the men who leveled their weapons at him. The light shot forth, a blue-white stream that widened, opening like the wings of a great, deadly bird, so that all of them were caught in it. The soldiers went still as the beam hit them. Their eyes widened as their bodies began to vibrate, frozen within the grasp of his power and unable to break free. And then, one by one, they exploded.

When it was over, an eerie calm fell over everything around him. The silent stillness of death. It was like no other emanation. When the souls fled the bodies of the living, especially in such massive numbers all at once, they left a vacuum behind. A space devoid of sense, of sound, almost of air.

Utana stepped down from the box-on-wheels, and he walked amid the remains. True carnage, this. Pieces of the humans littered the stone like ground, and hung from the motorized vehicles and the tall, light-emitting poles, and from the lines that seemed to be strung everywhere in this world. It was a terrible waste of life, and all for nothing.

As he looked at the death and mutilation around him, he thought of the healing power he had taken from James of the Vahmpeers. He had not yet attempted to use it, but he had no illusions that it would be effective on bits and pieces of men. He would first have to sort them, leaving none out, nor mixing any together. Such a task would be impossible, and would take days—weeks, perhaps—even to attempt. No, it was of no use. Were they not meant to die this day, they would not have placed themselves in his path. The higher being knew far more than did the earthly one. Their fate had been sealed; there was no undoing it.

He picked his way among the limbs and gore, amid the tiny fires dancing from their motor-driven conveyances, and the smoke spiraling all around him. He saw more humans, watching from a safe distance, and he felt only fear and terror coming from them—no attack. Pausing, Utana bent low to scoop up a dead man’s weapon. And as he held it, he closed his eyes briefly and absorbed its vibration through his palms. It took only seconds for him to understand how the weapon worked, how to use it, what it did. And so he gathered up a few more before moving on.

More soldiers would come after him. No army would let so many deaths go unavenged. He had not wanted war with the humans, but it seemed inevitable now.

His bare feet were cold as they slapped down on the wet stonelike substance with which modern man had apparently paved the world. The rain was lighter now. He would find clothing and shelter, a base of operations from which to work. The vahmpeers had moved to somewhere not far from this place. But they would know of his nearness now. Word of his deeds this night would surely spread. And then they would flee. If he hoped to catch up to them, to wipe them from existence, he had to find them before they did.

Washington, D.C.

“You can go in now, Senator,” the curly haired receptionist said.

Marlene MacBride rose from the vinyl chair she’d been warming for the past twenty minutes, smoothed her pencil-slim skirt over her thighs and strode to the door. She was staring at the plaque that adorned it. Special Agent Nash Gravenham-Bail. As she lifted a hand to tap before entering, the door swung open, and she glimpsed a broad torso and a large file box coming toward her.

The box bumped her chest before she had a chance to move out of the way. She automatically gripped it, and the man behind it spoke.

“Senator MacBride. Sorry about the wait, but I think you’ll find everything you need in here. Enough to get you started, at least.”

Marlene lifted her stunned eyes from the box to the face of the man shoving it at her. It was the scar that caught her attention, as she would guess it did most people’s upon meeting this man for the first time. It was a thin pink line, raised a bit, that began at the outside corner of his left eye and angled across his cheek to the center of his chin.

“Line of duty,” he said. “Besides, it’s intimidating. That’s a bonus in my line of work.”

She shifted her focus from his scar to his eyes. Wet cement, they were. “Mr. Gravenham-Bail?”

“It’s a mouthful, I know,” he said. “I still cuss my parents out on a daily basis for the hyphenated name thing. I mean, really, just pick one already. Make a decision.”

She nodded.

“Easier if you just call me Nash.”

“Mmm.” He still hadn’t let her into his office. She was standing in the doorway, holding a box that was getting heavier by the minute, and getting absolutely nowhere with him. “Look, Nash, I was expecting a meeting with you. So you could brief me on all this.”

“Oh, really? I thought you’d want documents. Files.”

“Well, those, too, but—”

“Look if you want a meeting, we’ll set one up. Week after next?”

“I’m afraid that—”

“Barbara,” he called, and started moving forward. Marlene had to either back up or let him walk right into her. He backed her into the reception area, pulling his office door closed behind him. “Barbara, schedule me a sit-down with the senator, here, for the next free afternoon I have. A full hour. And, uh, get someone to help her down with this file box, will you?”