Twilight Fulfilled (7 page)

She'd dealt with him before, though she hadn't known his name. He had a real problem with the Undead, and she had no idea why. But he was powerful, and he was smart. And she had reason to believe he'd been the true instigator behind the vigilante movement that had cost the lives of so many innocents, vampire and human alike.

She'd captured him once.

Utana himself had let the man go.

Damn, this plot was getting more mixed up all the time. Could Utana and Scarface have been working together even then? No. It was impossible. Utana had been resurrected on a yacht, at sea, by her brother. At the same time, Brigit and her vampire resistance movement had been tracking and engaging the bands of mortal vigilantes who'd been burning vampires in their homes while they slept by day, helpless to escape. And in one such battle they'd taken that scar-faced bastard prisoner.

She'd had him tied up in the basement of an abandoned church when her brother and his beautiful Lucy had shown up with the newly awakened Utana in tow.

Scarface had been wearing plaid flannel and denim then, trying to look like a redneck. Lucy,
though, had recognized him as one of the DPI, after being held by them for one miserable night.

Still, Utana couldn't have known him before that. Somehow Scarface had convinced the Ancient One to let him go.

Utana had been confused, fresh from five thousand years of living death and not knowing who to trust. Hell, he wasn't much better off now. And the bastard was still taking advantage of it.

The glimpses Brigit had managed to grab from a distance, and the bits she'd managed to overhear, thanks to her preternaturally enhanced senses, told her that Utana was being treated like a sultan.

He had everything but a harem.

Until today. Today she'd finally caught a break. And if Nash Gravenham-Bail of the DP-freaking-I thought he could win Utana's loyalty by giving him a palace and a pile of bowing, scraping servants, then just wait until he saw what
she
had in store.

The dancers the king had requested were due to arrive this evening. There was a feast planned.

Dancers.

When she'd first heard two of the housekeeping staff chattering excitedly about the plans as they left at the end of their shift, Brigit had been whisked back to her teen years in an instant, back to her days as the bad twin, before anyone expected her to ever do anything worthwhile, much less save her entire race. She'd returned mentally to another palace of
sorts, one of her aunt Rhiannon's posh, luxurious mansions. One that had no doubt been destroyed by now, by the vigilantes trying to wipe out every vampire in existence.

In her memories, a fire snapped and crackled in a round central fireplace, and Middle Eastern music wafted from unseen speakers. She stood, sixteen and not yet comfortable with the breasts that seemed to have grown overnight, dressed in an outfit that could have been stolen from the wardrobe room of
I Dream of Jeannie
.

She felt stupid and awkward. Nothing like Rhiannon, who stood facing her, looking like the Egyptian princess she was, in a flowing skirt of satin that rode low on her hips. A jade-green hip scarf, lined with bangles, was knotted over it, and the top she wore showed off her tiny waist and bulging cleavage. Her long dark hair was swept to one side, and she moved like water.

“Do as I do, child,” she told Brigit for the umpteenth time.

“I'll never be able to move like that,” Brigit complained. “And besides, why would I want to?”

Rhiannon stopped the swirling motion of her hips, the undulations of her torso, and crooked a brow. “Because I say so.” And then her stern expression softened. “The Egyptian belly dance is sacred, child. And in the hands of a priestess, it is an act of magic all its own.”

Brigit had begun to turn away, but her head and her attention snapped back to her aunt at one fascinating word. “Magic?”

Rhiannon nodded, her eyes all-knowing. “Powerful magic. You can make any man putty in your hands by the magic of the dance. He will fall at your feet, grateful you've allowed him to be there. He will eagerly do your bidding, give you whatever you ask.” She snapped her hips one way, then the other, and her bangles rang like hundreds of tiny bells with every movement she made. “Just.” Snap. “Like.” Snap. “That.” Shimmy-shimmy-shimmy.

Lowering her head, Brigit sighed. “All right. All right, then, if it's magic…show me again.”

“Good girl,” Rhiannon purred.

Drawing a breath and shaking away the memories of her childhood, Brigit made a mental note to thank Rhiannon when she saw her again.
If
she saw her again, because once she gained access to that mansion and got close enough to Utana to blow him to bits, she might not have an easy time getting out again.

But her people, what was left of them, would be saved.

Nodding, her decision made, she turned from her vantage point and headed up the winding pavement through the beautiful Virginia countryside to the place where she'd left her beloved car.

She smiled grimly, hating what she had to do,
but knowing it was necessary all the same. If she could make him believe her, see things her way, there might be a chance he could survive this. And if she couldn't, then at least she would be close enough to blow his oversize ass to smithereens.

She got behind the wheel of her baby-blue T-Bird, then sat there, using her smartphone to surf the internet in search of belly dance costume suppliers in the area.

She found only two. But that was all right. She only needed one.

She was going to find an outfit. And it was going to be…

Killer.

St. Dymphna Psychiatric Hospital
Mount Bliss, Virginia

M
arlene MacBride, U.S. senator and current chair of the Committee on U.S.-Vampire Relations, stood at the wrought-iron gates of what had been a mental hospital, speaking into an electronic box. “I told you, I'm a United States senator, and I'm here to inspect this place. I have the authority of the President, and if you don't let me in right now, I guarantee you won't have a job tomorrow.”

“Yes, ma'am,” the nurse repeated. “If you could just wait a few more minutes, until Mr. Gravenham-Bail arrives, it would be—”

“I've been standing here for twenty minutes already!”

“Yes, and we've phoned him and he's on his way.”

“And you are proving to me that you have some
thing to hide. So I'm leaving now, and you can tell Mr. Gravenham-Bail to expect all funding for this and any other operations he's running to be pulled by day's end. Goodbye.” She released the button, spun on her heel and stomped, furious, back toward her waiting car. Her driver-slash-bodyguard was leaning against the hood and keeping his eagle eyes on her.

He hurried around to open the door for her, but before she got in, another car pulled into the small parking area outside the perimeter fence, to the right of the building. Gravenham-Bail himself got out of that car and came hurrying toward her, smiling as if glad to see her, though the scar made the expression into something grotesque and creepy.

“I'm so sorry, Senator. If you had only called ahead, I'd have been here waiting.”

“Calling ahead kind of defeats the purpose of a surprise visit, Mr. Gravenham-Bail.”

“Please, call me Nash.”

“How about I call you unemployed? That is, unless that gate opens within the next thirty seconds.”

He made a sheepish shrug, then lifted a hand toward the gate in invitation. She sighed, irritated, but walked up to it. Gravenham-Bail poked buttons on a panel, and she watched, memorizing the sequence, and smiled when he shot her an odd look.

The gate swung open, and the man ushered her inside.

“I'd have been here sooner, but I'm staying just outside D.C., and it's a half hour drive. They've got me playing host to a…visiting dignitary all week. Shall I show you the grounds first?”

“I'm more concerned about the inmates, Mr. Bail.” She dispensed with the longer version of his name and didn't much care if he found that offensive or rude.

“They're refugees, not inmates. They're here for their own protection, Marlene.”

She winced at his use of her first name but didn't let it derail her from her topic. “It has been suggested to me that the…the vampire race are protective of these particular human beings. And that your purpose in gathering them all here might be…something about which you've been less than forthcoming.”

“What a fascinating little bit of fiction. Did it come from the vampires themselves, or have they hired a spin doctor?”

Two guards in army fatigues stood sentry at the front door. They saluted him as he moved through, holding her elbow until she pulled it away, disliking his touch.

“We don't use much of the first floor, other than my office, to the left. Pretty much everything else
is housed on the fourth. That's where all our guests are located.”

She followed him to the elevators, then rode along with him to the fourth floor. She was going to take a look at the other levels in this place before she left this place, she vowed.

As the doors opened, she stepped out of the elevator into what looked like an ordinary hospital. There was a nurses' desk with several uniformed women behind it. They looked up, apologetic but welcoming, as she neared them.

“Ladies, this is Senator MacBride. Senator, these are two of our nurses, Sarah Newfield and Roxanne Corona.”

She nodded at the women, but her gaze froze on the redhead. Her eyes were extremely familiar…. Wait! She was the informant who'd led her here.

Quickly, she lowered her head, not wanting to give the woman away, but from the look of interest in Gravenham-Bail's face, she might have been too late. Dammit.

“Why nurses?” she asked, attempting to cover. “No one here is sick, are they?”

“No, but with a few hundred people in one area, you're liable to run into health issues. And of course, the Belladonna Antigen they all possess presents health challenges all its own. We wanted to take every precaution to ensure that the people here are safe and sound. About half our staff are
R.N.s. We also have cooks, housekeeping staff, social workers and a crack security team.

“Ladies,” he went on, addressing the nurses. “I'd like you to give the senator a tour of our facilities here. She's to be allowed to visit with the patients, talk to them to her heart's content and even explore the vacant floors and the grounds if she wishes.” He turned to Marlene and bowed his head. “I have some business to attend to in my office. You can find me there when you're ready to leave, and I'll walk you out.” He started for the elevators.

She hurried after him. “But—Mr. Gravenham-Bail, I really need to talk to you about your true motives in holding these people here.” She glanced back at the desk, ensuring they were out of earshot of the nurses. “I've done some research. I know about…your mother.”

The words took him aback. He went dead silent for a moment.

She had learned that Gravenham-Bail's own mother had possessed the Belladonna Antigen. She'd vanished without a trace when he'd been eleven years old. No amount of digging had turned up any sign of her since then.

“Was she murdered by vampires, Nash?” she asked softly, using his first name at last, but only as a tactic. “Or did she become one?”

He twisted his head to the left and then quickly right, as if his tie were too tight. And then he said,
“My office. After you finish your tour. See you then.” With a chipper salute, he vanished into an open elevator. Its doors closed almost instantly.

 

Nash Gravenham-Bail sank into his plush office chair, picked up a remote and hit a button. A panel within the wall slid open to reveal a bank of monitors, each one showing a different part of the hospital. Still using the remote, he turned up the volume and controlled the cameras in order to followed the progress of the pretty little pain-in-the-ass senator and the redheaded nurse—who had apparently offered her services as a guide—as they moved along the fourth floor.

As he observed and listened, his office door opened. “You called for me, sir?”

“Yes,” he said to the young field agent. “I want a background check run on that redheaded nurse. Roxanne Corona.”

“Sir, there were checks run on every employee bef—”

“Run another.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I want more information about the good Senator MacBride, as well.”

The man frowned.

“Personal information. I want to know where she lives when she's in D.C., who lives there with her and what kind of security she has at night.”

“Sir?”

He glanced at the kid, amused by the worried look in his eyes. “She's stepping into very dangerous territory. Backing us for federal funding of this place, giving us a way to keep the so-called Chosen safe from those bloodthirsty animals. They're liable to target her. We need to make sure she's safe. She's our biggest ally right now.”

“Oh.”

“You have a problem with that?”

“Uh, no, sir. It's just that…”

“Spit it out, kid.”

“Uh, well, sir, she didn't seem like much of an ally out at the gate.”

Nash smiled. “Women, right? Keep 'em waiting, everything else goes out the window. Especially if their hormones are out of whack that day. You know how it is.”

The kid sighed, lowered his head. “Yes, sir.”

“I want you to do this personally. I want you to find every flaw in her security and report back to me, so I can fill in those gaps. We need her. Oh, and one more thing.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I want the combination on the digital locks changed. Today.”

“Yes, sir. I'll have it done within the hour, sir.” The agent turned and left the office.

Gravenham-Bail leaned back in his chair and watched the monitors. He didn't need much more time. But he needed a little.

 

Utana was restless.

Yes, he was in the very belly of luxury here, in this place. Servants scurried to attend to his every need. Daily, sometimes twice daily, he immersed himself in steaming hot baths of scented, oiled water, in tubs that could have held three or four people. His skin and hair were cleansed with the most incredible soaps and shampoos he had ever used, and the robes they brought him to wear, the silks and other shimmering fabrics, were of higher quality than he had ever known.

He had not once been required to dress in the detestable “pants” again. He'd complained so much the first and only time he'd had to wear the things that Nashmun had not dared offer him another pair. Instead he wore robes he was told were quite common among certain foreign leaders.

He was fed meals of such succulence he could not have imagined it. He need only request a given dish and it was delivered within hours. His rooms, in the upper part of the palace, were filled with soft light, with fragrant incense, with music whenever he wanted it. His bed was the softest he'd ever known, laden with coverlets and pillows, and surrounded by curtains of emerald and jade and blue.

And tonight they were bringing him something they said was “a surprise.”

He was not a stupid man. He knew full well that Nashmun had motives that went beyond love for the old gods and gratitude to Utana himself. His first loyalty was clearly to his country's king—pres-ee-dent, Utana corrected himself mentally. And that was good and right. Clearly part of Nashmun's mission was to make Utana comfortable, and to keep him relaxed and content until his government deemed the time was right to continue with the mission of eliminating the vahmpeers.

And that, Utana knew, was the true reason he was being treated so well. These people, these humans, wished to use him as the ultimate weapon in their war against the vahmpeers.

It did not seem so evil of them. It was, after all, his own ultimate goal, as well. And he did not mind being treated like a god incarnate while he awaited the time. But yet, after only three days, he knew he could not long abide here. Luxury and idleness bored him. And the gods must be getting restless, awaiting his obedience. Nor was it Nashmun's place to say when the time was right. This matter was between Utana and the gods he served. The ones who had cursed him.

A tap at his chamber door interrupted his musings.

“Enter,” he said. If nothing more, this time of
idleness had afforded him the chance to become far more adept at the language they called modern English. He was nearly fluent, though aware he still possessed an unusual accent.

Nashmun opened the door. “I am back, my lord. My apologies for being away for so long today. I had matters of state to attend to.”

“I am not displeased,” Utana said.

“I'm relieved. And very glad I made it back in time. Dinner is ready. And your surprise awaits with it.”

Utana nodded. “I am curious, I admit.”

“Oh, you'll love this. This is exactly what you need, I promise.”

Nodding, Utana followed his vizier into the hall. They walked along its deep red carpet to the curving staircase that wound downward, and then through the entry hall to where double doors stood open upon what Nashmun had called the “ballroom.” He'd had no use for it as yet.

However, tonight, there was a banquet awaiting there. The smells wafted tantalizingly from a table so laden with food that Utana was amazed it could still stand upright. All around the room were mortals—dignitaries, he presumed—and on a slightly raised platform in the far corner, men with musical instruments played softly. There were tall drums, stringed lutelike instruments, flute-pipes and others he did not recognize.

“What celebration is this?” he asked, looking around. “Is it one of your people's high holy days?”

“The celebration is in honor of you, my king,” Nashmun told him. “These are some people who have been eager to meet you. The leaders of all the nations of the world have come to pay their respects to you, and to thank you for what you are about to do for us all, in freeing us from the scourge of the Undead.” He lifted a hand, snapped a finger in the air.

The music stopped. The chatting and clinking of glasses ceased. And every head turned his way. The women wore glittering gowns, their hair piled high and glittering jewels adorning their earlobes and necks. The men wore dark suits and ties, save a few, who wore robes as he did. They all looked his way.

“I give you our salvation,” Nashmun announced. “The ancient and mighty Utanapishtim, Priest of the Anunaki, King of Sumer, returned to us by the gods to save us from an evil we cannot hope to survive without his help. All hail Utanapishtim!”

“Hail!” they all shouted. And then, before his eyes, every head of state in the world genuflected before him.

Utana was overwhelmed, and his throat tightened too much to speak. “I…I do not know what to say,” he whispered to his vizier.

“Say nothing, my lord,” Nashmun whispered.
“Only accept their devotion and respect as you pass among them to take your seat of honor.”

Nashmun walked beside him, leading him by a circuitous route among the kings and presidents and prime ministers to a cushion on a raised platform, slightly above all the rest. As he passed, Utana nodded to them each in turn. Finally he was seated in a velvet nest of comfort. Only after he sat did the dignitaries resume their chitchat, their drinking.

A servant brought him a platter of food, and another clapped his hands to indicate that the others were now permitted to begin their meal. Utana began to eat, interrupted every so often by Nashmun, introducing him to the guests who humbly approached. Each president and king and prime minister thanked him for his service and pledged fealty.