Prince of Twilight (22 page)

Melina gasped.

“I don't like it. You know this group can't be trusted.”

She shrugged. “What could they do to us, Vlad? We could snap them like twigs before they could blink.”

“Hey, hey, hold up a sec,” Lupe interrupted. “Just what is your problem with the Sisterhood of Athena?”

Rhiannon faced her. “If you really want to know, look it up. You keep scrupulous records. Cross reference Egypt and my original name, Rianikki, daughter of Pharoah, priestess of Isis—a group once tightly allied with your own.” She shrugged. “When you have time. For now, let it go, and let us focus on the matter at hand. How did Beta bring the antigen into a body that did not formerly possess it?”

“I don't know how it happened, or why, but it has,” Vlad said. “I'm not sure it even matters how or why. The antigen is different in her, altered somehow.”

Rhiannon nodded. “It's taken up residence in a body never meant to house it,” she said. “According to what I've read in the ancient texts the re
cipients of the antigen have a common ancestor. It's said to be you, Vlad. But I suspect it goes back further.”

“To Utnapishtim,” Vlad said softly. “The first immortal. I was his servant, but also a distant relation.”

“I'm not sure it has to be a blood descendant, though,” Rhiannon went on.

“What other sort of descendant could there be?” Melina asked.

Rhiannon met her eyes. “A future incarnation of the same soul,” she said. “There is a master soul for each of us. Think of it as your higher self. It spins off parts of itself to come into each lifetime. When we die, we return to meld with that higher self, to share with it all of the wisdom and experience gained from our mortal lifetime. It grows wiser and stronger and more enlightened, and spins off another part to live another life.”

“And what happens, Rhiannon, if that melding fails to come about?” Vlad asked.

Rhiannon shrugged. “I suspect each future incarnation is somehow less than complete, for it is missing a part of its spiritual ancestry that would make it whole.”

He frowned deeply. “What do you suppose that means for our kind, Rhiannon? We never…meld.”

“I have my theories,” she whispered. “But I think it's a conclusion one needs to reach on one's own.”

He lowered his head, shaking it slowly. “What are we going to do to help Elisabeta?”

“I think you already know that answer to that, Vlad.” Rhiannon put both her hands on his shoulders. “We have to exorcise her. We must free her soul from the influence of that ring, so she can move on to the other side and meld with her higher self the way she was meant to do.”

“It does seem to be the only way,” Melina whispered.

“It
is
the only way,” Lupe agreed. “Especially since she's going to die anyway.”

“And if she does, she'll take Brooke with her,” Melina said quickly.

Vlad remained stoic. “We could transform her.”

“We'd still be condemning Brooke to death,” Rhiannon said. “If Beta stays in her body, Brooke will die. And while I'm not certain she can escape that fate either way, Vlad, it is not our place to take her life.”

“She asked for this. She invited Elisabeta in.” He closed his eyes to keep his feelings hidden.

“Honestly, Vlad, you know perfectly well Beta is insane. You cannot tell me you would consider giv
ing a lunatic the power of the Undead and turning her loose on the world of man. She would be a rogue. And a dangerous one. We would end up having to destroy her anyway.”

She sighed, and when he said nothing, she went on. “And there's one more thing to consider. Unless Beta is set free, all of her spiritual descendants will die. That's the way your magicians worded the spell. And you know what that means, Vlad. Stormy, the only true innocent in all of this, will die. Tonight, Vlad. Midnight tonight.”

He opened his eyes, parted his lips to speak, then closed them, rethinking his words. “Then I have to find a way to save Beta before then.”

“Vlad? What … what the hell is wrong with you?”

Rhiannon stared at him as if she'd never seen him before. And he couldn't speak to her, not even mentally, not without risk. “I wish to speak with Tempest now,” he said instead. “Where is she?”

Lupe, who'd been mostly silent until then, looked at him with worry in her eyes. “Um, I thought you knew. She left.”

He blinked, stunned. “Left?”

“She said this was no longer her problem, Vlad,” Rhiannon said. “She was angry, furious—with you, I imagine.”

Lupe added, “I saw her in her room, packing her stuff.”

Vlad turned and ran down the hall to Tempest's room. He flung open the door, but it was empty. Then he opened the closet, the bathroom, but all were vacant, and every sign of her presence was missing—except the scent of her. That still lingered.

He went down the stairs and through the mansion to the front door, only to see that Tempest's car was gone. Only a trail of dust remained. She must have only just departed.

“Vlad!” Rhiannon shouted.

He returned to Brooke's bedroom door, which stood open. The others—Rhiannon, Melina and Lupe—were standing just inside.

He said, “You were right, Lupe. Tempest is gone.”

“Yes, well, that might present a serious problem,” Rhiannon said, and stepping aside, she gave him a view of the empty bed. “Because so is Elisabeta.” She wrung her hands, closed her eyes.

“She was listening at the door only moments ago!” Vlad exploded.

Rhiannon lifted her brows and met his eyes. “Is
that
it? Is that why you—”

“Not now, Rhiannon.” He closed his eyes. “We have to find them. And we don't have much time.”

E
lisabeta had dragged herself from the bed and across the room. She'd leaned close to the door to listen to what they were saying on the other side. And so she knew it was good that she had failed in her attempt to kill the feisty little blonde who was trying to steal her husband, because according to Rhiannon, Beta needed her.

She needed the woman's body. They'd still been talking outside her door when Elisabeta made her escape. The moment Rhiannon had stated that the only solution was to exorcise her, kill her, she had fled.

This body, the one she had taken from the foolish Brooke, was weakening, and at last she understood why. It was this Belladonna Antigen, yes. But it was more than just that. The body was wrong for her. A poor fit. She couldn't last in this home. She belonged in Tempest's body. It was the only way.

But how? Tempest had taken the ring and the scroll from her.

First, she knew, she had to get out of this place, before those fiends could send her to her death. Even if Vlad intended to protect her, as he'd promised, he was outnumbered. And the vampiress Rhiannon was, Beta sensed, a powerful foe. Escaping in her weakened state would have been more difficult had she not been able to plumb the depths of Brooke's memory for the solution. She knew this place.
She
knew everything about it—more than just how to get out. She knew where the weapons were kept.

And she would need weapons if she hoped to defeat Tempest. She took a change of clothing from the dresser and rapidly put the new outfit on. Then she grabbed a bag from Brooke's closet, one that contained all the items Beta would need to perform the ritual.

Her borrowed body was weak but not helpless. Not yet. Beta knew now that it was going to get a lot worse, and she might not have much time. She went to the window, and it opened easily. Then she climbed out and made her way down, finding every chink and bump in the stone outer walls, just as Brooke had done many times before.

Brooke. Elisabeta almost felt sorry for the woman. She understood, oh, so well, Brooke's hunger for immortality. It was what had driven her to risk her life by inviting Beta in. It was the same hunger that had driven Elisabeta herself all these long years. To live, to be immortal, to have limitless power and endless life. It was a dream, the one she craved beyond all others. Just as Brooke had.

She found another window, but it was locked. So she dropped the remaining distance to the ground, where a jarring landing subdued her, but only for a moment. She shook it off and hurried behind the massive house to the sunroom in the back, praying that door would be unlocked.

It was, and finally she was back inside the house. She crept through it, into the main parlor, listening. But there was no one. They were all still busy plotting her destruction upstairs. Bastards.

She made her way to the weapons room, quickly punching the code into the panel to unlock the door. Once inside, she armed herself, taking a sleek silver weapon Brooke thought of as a handgun, a supply of the “bullets” it would fire, and a deadly looking but small knife with a sheath that clipped onto the waistband of the jeans she wore, since that bitch Tempest had divested her of the blade she'd
had before. She clipped the sheath in back, so that it hung down inside the jeans, rather than on the outside where it would be visible.

Would it be enough?

It would have to be—they would discover her missing soon.

She hurried to the front door and outside, then ducked behind a hedge when a shiny black car pulled swiftly up to a spot directly in front of the main entrance. Staying low, Elisabeta peered over the bush to watch. The car's trunk popped open, and a woman got out and hurried toward the front steps.

It was her. Tempest.

Beta's fingers itched to draw the handgun, even as she probed Brooke's stores of knowledge to learn how to use it. But she restrained herself. She needed Tempest alive.

She noticed, then, the small suitcase and duffle bag resting on the bottom step. Tempest was leaving? No. Beta couldn't lose her. What if she couldn't find her again in time?

Making a hasty decision, Beta leapt the hedge and ran to the car while Tempest's back was to it. The trunk would never do; she would be seen. Instead, Beta moved to the far side of the vehicle and
got into the roomy back seat. She crouched on the floor and hoped the whore wouldn't look there before leaving.

Silently, she huddled there, not moving, barely breathing, as she waited.

She felt the car move when Tempest slung her bags into the trunk, and then the thud when she slammed the lid closed. Elisabeta tensed as the woman walked by the car, but she never looked inside. She just opened the driver's door and got in. And then they were in motion.

Elisabeta had no idea what to do next. Wait, she supposed, until they were in some secluded place. Tempest had the ring and the scroll. Surely if the ritual had worked once, it would work again. All she had to do was subdue the twit long enough to put the ring onto her finger and perform the rite the way it was meant to be performed. Her soul would be transferred into Tempest's body—this time, though, Tempest's would be evicted. She would be gone.

Beta would be strong again, and whole. And Vlad would be hers.

Carefully she settled into a more comfortable position on the cramped floor of the vehicle, leaned her head on the back of the front seat and closed her eyes.

 

As she drove, Stormy tried to put Vlad out of her mind, but she couldn't. The more she tried not to think of him, the more he invaded her soul. Memories of their past together, the one she'd forgotten for so long, those few forbidden days with him in Romania, lay waiting for her to find. So rather than dwell on her unrequited and hopeless love, not to mention her probably impending death, she let them come.

“You're not well, are you?” Vlad asked as they drove along winding tracks through the Romanian countryside.

“I'm fine. It's probably jet-lag catching up with me.” She knew it wasn't that, though. It was Elisabeta. The woman's presence was stronger here, and the constant struggle for control of her own body was wearing Stormy down.

“You're pale,” Vlad said. More worried, Stormy thought, about Elisabeta than about her.

“So are you.” She sent him a sideways look, but he only scowled in response to her lame attempt at humor.

“Are you sure you're up to this excursion?”

“If not now, when?” she asked. Then she shrugged. “Keep driving, Vlad. Take me to Castle Dracula.”

“I'm afraid this is as far as we can go by car.” He pulled to a stop and got out. She got out, too, and looked in the same direction he was.

They stood at the foot of a peak, and the path up it was so steep, it was nearly vertical. At the top, shrouded in mist and darkness, she could barely make out a shape that might be a castle.

She sighed, unsure she had the strength to make the climb. But then Vlad turned to her. “Come to me, Tempest. Put your arms around my neck.”

She frowned, told herself this wasn't the time or place—and complied anyway. Anytime she could put her arms around him was the right time. And she didn't think she had the will to refuse him, anyway. She slipped her arms around his neck. He quickly scooped her off her feet and whispered, “Hold on.”

There was a rush of speed and motion too sudden and rapid to absorb, much less follow. Seconds later, he was lowering her to her feet again. He kept his hands on her waist, and it was a good thing, because her knees didn't want to hold her weight. They started to buckle as soon as she tried to stand, and her earlier dizziness was magnified a hundred times.

She let him hold her while she pressed her hands to either side of her head and tried to blink her vision into focus. “What the hell was that?”

“I didn't think you were up to hiking the distance. And really, there was no need. We're here.”

Frowning, she searched his face briefly, then turned to follow his gaze. The castle wasn't a castle at all. It was a crumbling pile of ruins, ancient stone blocks piled atop one another to form walls, with little or no mortar left in between. A path wound amid them, and someone had put a modern railing along parts of it, to protect unwary tourists, she supposed, from what would be a deadly fall. “This is it? I thought Castle Dracula was big and white and fancy.”

“That's Bran Castle. I was rarely there, but the tourists seem to like it. This…this was where I lived. Poenari Castle. There's…very little left to explore, I'm afraid.”

“Is it safe?”

“Come.” He took her hand—not because he cared, she reminded herself, but just to keep her from falling, and that only for Beta's sake—and led her closer. They moved past the walls toward the tallest section, a rounded portion. The top of it was long gone, and it was higher on either side, lower in the middle, where more stones had fallen away, so that its top formed a crescent. He led her all through the place, pointing out what used to be the keep, the courtyards and so on. But nothing was even vaguely familiar to her.

Finally she sighed and touched his shoulder. “Vlad, where is the tower? The place where she died?”

He stopped walking, stopped speaking, lowered his head.

“Is it going to be too hard for you? Seeing that spot again? Because I could go alone.”

“No. It's fine. Come.”

He took her hand again and led her along a twisting path through the crumbling stones, finally stopping to point at a cluster of other ruins, though they were in far better shape than the first one. “Do you see the tower down there?” he asked, pointing.

“Yes. Is that…?”

“No. That's where the legends say she died. They say she pitched herself from that tower as the Turks approached, in order to prevent herself being captured. But as you know, that's not precisely the way it happened.”

“I suppose it makes her rather a heroic figure, to remember it that way.”

“I suppose.” He turned and looked at a narrow circle of stones, barely four feet high. “This was the actual tower. My chambers were near the top. I liked to be able to see all the way down the mountain as soon as I rose and before I slept.”

He lifted his gaze, and she did, too, trying to picture the place before it had fallen to ruin. But what she saw in her mind's eye could have been more imagination than past life memory.

She moved to the far side of the circular base,
where it came within a few yards of a steep drop. She went to step closer to the edge, but Vlad gripped her shoulders. “Careful. The ground is no longer stable here.”

Holding her, he moved a little nearer the edge, then stopped. Stormy stared down, such a very long way down, into a sea of mist. The rocky slope dropped straight out of sight beneath the glittering stars. And then, as if on cue, a wind came, and the mists below swirled and then dissipated, so she could see all the way to the bottom, where a narrow stream wound over jagged rocks and boulders far below.

She felt it, then: the powerful sensation of her body falling, plummeting. The sense of weightlessness, of flying. The deathly silence of her descent. Her hair was tugged tight by the force of the air through which she fell. The wind whistled past her ears and stung her face. Heartache pounded inside her chest, so large it felt she would split open and bleed. She felt the crushing impact, pain beyond human endurance exploding in every part of her, and then it vanished and there was nothing but blessed relief. Release. Her breath rushed out of her. Her final breath. And she smiled as she died.
Finally,
she thought.
Peace. An end to this endless grief. Finally. Let me go.

“Tempest!”

She blinked slowly and found herself lying on the
ground, her upper body cradled in Vlad's arms as he smacked her cheeks and shook her shoulders.

“Tempest, talk to me. For the love of the gods…”

“Okay,” she managed. “I'm…okay.”

“Far from it, I think.” He held her closer, folding her to his chest as he knelt there, stroking her hair. For that brief moment she could almost have let herself believe he really cared. Almost.

“What happened just now? What happened to you?”

She rested against him, closing her eyes, even though she knew this wasn't real, this show of affection. “I think it was her. Elisabeta. I felt what she felt as she plummeted to her death, Vlad. And it wasn't horrible. I mean, there was pain when she hit the rocks. But it was very brief, and it was nothing compared to the pain she was feeling beforehand. The emotional pain. God, it was killing her. But it left her, Vlad. As she died, there was this incredible feeling of relief—of release. She didn't want to hurt anymore.”

He'd been rocking her in his arms, but he stopped then. “And yet, she did, didn't she?”

Stormy swallowed hard, lifted her head from his chest and tipped her chin up to stare into his eyes. “I think she still is. Vlad, the woman I feel in these memories or episodes of possession or whatever they are—she's sweet. She's innocent and naive, and very weak and needy. And in a lot of pain, almost all the time. But sweet. But
the one who comes in now, to take over the way she does, she's none of those things. She's cruel and angry and violent. I'm not sure she's the same woman at all.”

“Or perhaps she is. Perhaps this is what she has become, what my actions caused her to become.” He lowered his head. “Perhaps Rhiannon was right. The ritual I had the sorcerers perform was a mistake.”