Twilight Fulfilled (10 page)

“Ancient and Mighty Anunaki,” Utana said softly, “hear my plea. I, Ziasudra, Utanapishtim, Flood Survivor, your faithful servant, priest of the Ancient and Mighty Gods, King of Old, I call upon you. Hear my words!”

He paused, feeling the air, sensing that his gods were near. They heard him. He felt the tingling energy of their attention.

“Enki, Lord Earth, Enlil, Lord Air! Hear me! Anu, of the Heavens, Utu, Sun God, Nanna of the Moon, Inanna, Queen of Heaven and of the Morning Star, Ninmah, Mountain Lady! Give heed to my cry!”

The wind lifted, and a tiny swirl of fallen rose petals rose with it, forming a spiral in the air before him, then raining to the ground again.

They were here. They were listening!

“I ask you again for your mercy upon my people, who have done you no harm. Indeed, the sin committed was mine alone. And for that I have suffered, surely more than any man has suffered before. I ask you yet again, Ancient and Mighty Ones, the Seven Who Decree the Fates, I beg of you, humbled as a servant at your feet.” With those words, he fell to his knees. His heart seemed to swell within him, and tears to burn in his eyes. “Spare them,” he begged. “Spare me this bloody task which you have set before me. Punish me further if you must. But spare the vahmpeers. Or at the least, the moonlight lady and her brother, James, who bear only a hint of the stain of the condemned, and that through no fault of their own.”

He bent his head as the rush of his desire went forth from within him, leaving him weak and empty. “I will do anything required to make it so. Send me a sign, that I might know your will. As always, I shall humbly obey.”

He opened his eyes, nodded once, confident his gods had heard him at last, and that they had been pleased with his prayer, the roses, the scents. Yes, they must have been pleased. Soon they would send a sign. Their answer.

Utana walked back onto the paved footpath and approached the arching garden gate. He reached for the latch.

As his hand touched the metal, a blast of energy
hit him with a shower of sparks. The impact sent him flying backward, his feet leaving the earth as his body arched, and then he landed, his back slamming into the paved walkway, driving the very breath from his lungs. He lay there, face up on the ground, gasping for the breath that had been stolen away from him and feeling as if his palms were on fire.

His body seemed alive with a tingling, zinging energy almost too strong to bear, and his head pounded and throbbed as bursts of white light exploded before his eyes.

Was this the answer his gods had sent to him, then?

It was not the reply he had hoped for.

B
rigit waited for him to return. The bedroom was dark except for the soft yellow glow of a night-light, its candle-size bulb glowing from a miniature lamp beside the bed.

It had been the better part of an hour. And she was worried. He was far too trusting of Nash Gravenham-Bail and his DPI cohorts. He had no idea what those bastards were capable of.

She did. She'd seen it firsthand. Her own mother—

No, she wouldn't think about that now. Not now. And why was she spending her time worrying about the well-being of her enemy, anyway? The man she'd been sent here to kill.

And yet, when he still hadn't returned ten minutes later, she worried all the more. Getting up from the mound of downy soft pillows, a bed so luxurious she'd decided she was going to create one for
herself one day soon, she paced to the window and, parting the curtains, looked out.

But this bedroom didn't overlook the gardens behind the mansion, and she saw nothing but the waning moon and star-dotted sky.

And then, quite suddenly, the amber glow of the night-light flickered, dimmed to almost nothing, and then surged brighter than before. Then it went out with a soft popping sound, leaving the room dark.

Frowning, no longer content to wait there, Brigit spun to the door and was about to yank it open, not even thinking about the fact that it was locked, when her superhuman hearing picked up the radio crackling on the guard's belt. She paused and listened.

“Zone Three here. The First is down
hard
.”

“Shit,” the guard muttered. “Zone One. On my way. What happened?”

“About twenty thousand volts happened,” came the reply. “He grabbed the garden gate.” And then she heard him jogging at a good clip down the corridor.

Brigit didn't hesitate. She pulled the door open and followed, only a few steps behind. And the guard, who quickly realized she was there, seemed to decide in an instant not to waste precious time doing anything about it. Luckily he seemed not to even wonder about the lock.

Despite their hurry, they didn't even make it halfway down the stairs before they were stopped by the sight of four guys coming toward them, carrying Utana between them, one at each arm, one at each leg, grunting as they started up the stairs. For a moment she couldn't take her eyes off Utana, unconscious, perhaps dead. But then some kind of psychic warning kicked in, and she glanced up in time to see Scarface rushing behind them.

Quickly she turned around and ran back up the stairs to the bedroom.

Seconds, only seconds, and they were stomping into the bedroom and dumping the big man onto his mattress, which sank beneath his weight. She quickly located one of the scarves from her belly dance costume and considered wrapping it around her face and head, so that only her eyes showed above it. But that would be suspicious. The room was dark, lit only by the lopsided moon outside the windows. And Nash was focused on Utana, not her. She tried to produce a quick glamour, enough to keep him from recognizing her should he happen to look her way, but her focus was on Utana, as well.

“Is he…is he alive?” she asked, as the men backed away from the bedside, giving Scarface him self access.

He didn't even look at her. “The fake concern is great, but you're supposed to be a prisoner here, right? Shouldn't you be happy about this?”

Swallowing hard, she nodded, moving closer to the bedside, despite the danger of being recognized.

“Quiet, he's coming around.” Gravenham-Bail leaned closer. “Utana? My king, can you hear me?”

Utana's eyes moved beneath his closed lids. His lips moved, too, and his false friend tipped his head, listening intently, his ear near Utana's face.

“You were electrocuted,” his vizier said, staring down at Utana in utterly false concern. “I'm so very sorry, Your Highness. I blame myself for not warning you of the electrified fences.”

Utana's eyes opened then, but only to mere slits. “Wh-why?” he asked.

“For your protection, my friend. You're an important man. In this age, world leaders are not safe in their own homes.” He shot a look across the bed at Brigit, then at the men who'd carried Utana. “I want everyone to clear out of here. I have a private physician on the way. Bring her up here the minute she arrives.”

“N-no.” Utana clasped Brigit's hand even as she turned from the bed. “She stays.”

Licking his lips, Nash frowned. “All right. Yes. That's fine.”

“You…Nashmun…go.”

Nash blinked in shock. Catching Brigit's eyes before she quickly averted her face, his own narrowing, he nodded once, then turned and headed
toward the door, motioning for her to come with him. “I'll bring Lillian up when she arrives,” he said.

“Lillian?” Brigit asked, trying to pour her energy into the glamour she'd cast.

“The doctor. Same one who did the physicals on your dance troupe. She'll be here any minute. Try to keep him calm until then.”

Brigit nodded, knowing this was going to be yet another problem, and waited until the man left the room, then quickly pushed the door closed. Turning, she hurried back to the bed. “Utana—are you all right?”

He nodded. “The blast was…not unlike yours. This garden gate nearly did your job for you, Brigit.” Then he lifted a hand to gently stroke her cheek. “He did not recognize you?”

“No, but I think he's getting suspicious.” She took hold of his wrist, turning his hand palm up and looking at the blackened flesh across his palm. “My brother's healing gift. You took it from him. Use it to heal yourself.”

“I…tried. I know not quite how to…wield it.”

“Then give it to me.”

He frowned at her. “You…would heal me?”

“I want you in good shape so I can kill you later,” she said, before remembering they were probably under surveillance. Her voice had been low—low enough, she hoped. Still, she dropped
it to the merest whisper. “Can you do it? Can you give powers as well as take them away?”

“I can.”

“Then do it. And hurry up about it,” she whispered, leaning closer. “Apparently this doctor they're bringing saw all the dancers. She'll know I wasn't one of them.”

“Trick her mind, as you did his.”

“I can try, but it doesn't always work. Not all humans are as weak-willed as he is.” Which was, in itself, a matter of some concern for Brigit. Why would the DPI put a man whose mind was that easily manipulated in charge of a case involving the Undead, masters of mind control? It didn't make sense.

He nodded. “I will suffer this pain until the…doctor…goes. She will know something is wrong if I am well. Then…we shall see. Go now. Hide yourself. I was wrong to make you stay and risk them finding you out. I wish no harm to come to you, Brigit.”

She nodded and then retrieved a robe from where it hung on the far side of the bed. Her fingers brushed over his skin as she picked it up, and his eyes flared briefly in reaction, despite the pain he must be in. Pulling on the oversize robe, Brigit headed for the hallway.

As she stepped out of the room, Utana bellowed, “And do not return until I send for you!”

She scrunched up her face. “Damn men and their damned egos,” she muttered. Then she looked at the guard, back in his spot outside the door. “Well, you heard him. Is it all right if I just go…I don't know, find a vacant bedroom and get some rest? It's not like I can get out of here, unless I want to get myself fried like his kingness just did.”

The guy lifted his wrist mic, passing along the question.

“Gee, I love a guy who makes his own decisions.”

He was unflappable, didn't even act as if he'd heard her. Then he got his answer and gave her a nod. “The next three rooms are vacant. Pick whichever one you want. But don't try to go any farther or go downstairs.”

Then he looked up at the sound of voices. “Here comes the doc.”

By the time he looked her way again, Brigit was gone.

 

Utana lay in the bed and marveled at the intensity of the pain. His hand felt as if he were gripping a hot poker. And bolts, like powerful echoes of the initial blow, kept shooting through the rest of his body, pulsing up his spine and hammering the base of his skull. Lesser shocks, much the same but on a smaller scale, shot out into his limbs, into his
fingers and toes. It felt as if he were touching that damnable gate again and again.

Before long Nashmun entered, accompanied by the doctor, a woman with long, white-streaked jet-black hair. She immediately leaned over him, pressing an instrument to his chest.

He closed his hand over the thing, startled and not trusting these people. But as he cupped the thing with his uninjured hand, its meaning and use came clear in his mind. It was a tool, used to listen to sounds inside the body. She could hear his heart beating, and the air rushing in and out of his chest, depending on where she placed it.

She met his eyes. “It's all right, it won't hurt you.”

“I know,” he said, and he removed his hand and allowed her to continue. After a few moments she lowered the ends of the device from her ears, letting it hang around her neck, and pressed her fingertips to his wrist. Again she listened, looking at the time-keeping device on her wrist. Wristwatch, he reminded himself.

Finally she turned his hand over, and examined his scorched palm. “This is nasty.”

“It…pains me,” Utana said, understanding now that she was this society's version of a healer, and wondering what prayers and chants and herbs she would use to ease his suffering.

Turning, she opened the small black bag she had brought into the room with her and took out sev
eral items. She removed the top from a container of water and extended his hand over a small bowl made of that odd material that had not existed in his time. Plastic, Nashmun had called it. Everything seemed made of it today. Squirting the water from the bottle, the healer woman cleansed his burned palm.

It burned like new fire! He hissed and jerked his hand away.

“If infection sets in, it will be worse,” she told him, and her tone was harsh, until Nashmun elbowed her. She glanced sideways at him, then met Utana's eyes, schooling her own features into those of a loving and devoted servant. “What I'm doing hurts now, my king, but I'll be fast, and it will feel much better when I've finished.”

Utana did not see that he had any other options but to allow her to continue tending his wounds. He found himself wishing Brigit were there to mind-speak to him whether or not these people were telling the truth. Truly, she knew them and their ways far more than he did.

But that was not the only reason he wished for her presence. He thought there was no situation, nor time, nor place, nor environment, that would not be improved by her presence. His longing for her to be by his side was becoming a constant pang within him. A need demanding fulfillment.

Slowly he relaxed his hand and extended it once
more for the doctor. If nothing else, her ministrations would at least distract him from thoughts of his would-be assassin.

The healer-woman finished her painful cleansing of the wound, and then she opened a tube and squeezed from it an odd-smelling unguent. Quickly she coated his seared flesh in a thick layer of the stuff. Utana's eyes widened, as the magical concoction eased his pain, cooled the burn, providing unexpected relief.

“See?” she said. “That's better, isn't it?”

“It is,” he agreed.

“Now we have to keep it clean. So it can heal.” She was capping the tube as she spoke; then she unrolled a length of thin white fabric, and wrapped his hand around and around with it.

“A glass of water, please, Nash?” she asked.

Nashmun nodded, rushing into the bathroom. As he brought the water, the doctor pulled a bottle from her bag and shook out two tiny white objects. “Take these. They'll help with the remaining pain.” She held them near his mouth, so he presumed he was to eat them. He accepted the pills, chewing them as she turned to accept the water from Nash.

When she turned back to him with the glass in hand, Utana was making a terrible face and running his tongue over his teeth to try to dislodge the clinging bitter bits. “These taste terrible,” he complained. “What are they?”

“Don't spit them out. Here, drink!” She held the glass to his lips, and he drank, then drank again, eventually rinsing all the pieces down his throat. Gods, the things were awful.

When he could speak again, he asked, “What poison did you feed me?”

“It's medicine. We call it aspirin,” she told him, and then she sent an apologetic look toward Nashmun. “It's all I dare give him. We have no idea how his physiology will react to any medication, after all.”

“Understood. Thank you, Lillian.”

“You're welcome.” She looked at Utana again. “You will need to rest. You'll be tired, and your muscles will ache, for a few days. If you have any more pain than that, you need to tell Nash, and he'll send for me. All right?”

“Yes.”

Nodding, she began repacking her bag.

Nashmun focused his attention on Utana. “Where were you going, Utana?” he asked. “Were you trying to run away from us?”

Utana narrowed his eyes, wondering if, at last, he might glean the truth from his so-called vizier. “I thought to go in search of clothing for Br—for my harem slave.” He realized that he had no idea what name Brigit had given Nashmun, but he was sure it would not have been her true one.

Lillian looked up from her task, sending an unspoken question to Nashmun.

“One of the dancers,” the vizier explained. “He took a liking to her, decided to keep her as his personal…maid.”

Lillian crooked a dark eyebrow. “That's extremely inappropriate, Nash.”

“We'll discuss it outside.”

“You cannot ask the girl to—”

“I said we'll discuss it outside.”