Edge of Twilight (16 page)

Something shivered down Edge's spine. An awareness he hadn't felt since he'd been newly made. A prickle, a connection like a live wire under his skin. He turned toward that voice, watching as the man came closer.

“You,” Edge whispered. He was rocked, right to his core, as the vampire who'd sired him, then aban
doned him, stood there, holding his gaze. “You son of a bitch.”

Edge vaulted the rail and sprang on the man with all the fury he'd been carrying around for more than fifty years.

A
fter Stiles jabbed her with the needle, obviously operating at full strength while she was feeling absurdly weak, Amber thanked the gods that at least her brains were still functioning at full capacity and sank to the floor.

Stiles, the handcuffs hanging uselessly from his wrists, their chain snapped in half, leaned over her. “I've been hoping to run into you again,” he said softly. “The timing is…well, it's quite astounding, really.”

She let her eyelids hang heavy, half shielding her eyes, as if there really had been tranquilizer in that needle he'd jabbed into her arm, instead of the saline solution she'd found in his little black bag. The hypodermic with the actual drug was in her pocket. She'd had a feeling he was faking—had guessed the drug would have been wearing off by now. Just as she'd had a feeling she would learn more by playing along than she would by fighting him and—given her state—probably losing. So she'd taken a few…precautions.

“What are you…talking about?” she asked, slurring her words.

He shrugged. “You took my journals. You know what I did with the blood I took from you.”

She nodded, moving her head as if her neck were made of rubber. “You made some kind of formula…from my blood….”

He shrugged. “Among other ingredients. I call it Ambrosia. Clever, don't you think? The nectar of the gods, key to immortality?”

“Ambrosia,” she repeated.

“Ambrosia-Six, actually. The first five tries were ineffective.”

“You injected yourself. And now you're…you're…immortal?”

“Well, not exactly.” He smiled down at her. “It wears off, you see. I've had to remedicate myself every six months, and I'm nearly out of Ambrosia-Six. So you can see how fortuitous our meeting again is for me. Thank you, Amber Lily.”

He watched her carefully, expectantly, and she knew she should probably be unconscious by now, so she let her eyes fall closed and her head go limp. He went to the black bag, and she heard him when he returned, turning the handcuff key, dropping the cuffs into the hay. She tried not to cringe in revulsion when he hauled her up over his shoulder and began striding out of the barn with the bag in his free hand. He paused near the door, looking around the barn. “If I knew where that bastard Edgar was, I'd take the time to kill him. He'll keep coming after me until one of us is dead, I'm afraid. And I don't intend for it to be me.” He sighed as if in sincere and deep regret that he wouldn't be able to murder Edge, then kept walking.

Amber could feel the capped hypodermic, the only one left with real tranquilizer inside, poking her thigh where she'd tucked it into her pocket. She thought about jerking it out and jabbing him with it, but it occurred to her that he was giving her exactly what she needed. He
was taking her somewhere to extract some more of her blood, so he could use it to make the very same formula she needed in order to save Willem. If she were there, pretending to be his prisoner, she could get the formula, or even steal his supply of the elixir. Ambrosia indeed. In the hands of a man as evil as Stiles, it was more the nectar of demons than of gods.

Still, she needed to know how he'd made the stuff. So she continued to hang limp over his shoulder and let him carry her down through the woods until they reached a narrow, barely paved road. To her surprise, there was a vehicle waiting there. A black Lincoln, parked along the shoulder.

As Stiles approached it, a woman got out of the driver's seat and opened a rear door for him without a word. Through the slits of her eyelids, Amber saw flaming hair, in a “big-hair” style, that surrounded the woman like a red cloud. She wore sunglasses with rhinestones on the frames. Spandex encased her legs to midcalf, and hot pink polish colored the toenails visible in the spike heeled sandals. Her tight black rib-knit sweater had fake leopard fur trim around the collar and cuffs.

Stiles slung the black bag into the car. “I see the homing beacon did its job?”

“You are so smart, Frankie,” the woman said, her voice irritatingly high pitched. “Puttin' it into the heel of your shoe like that—fuckin' brilliant.”

He grunted and bent low, flipping Amber off his shoulder and onto the back seat.

“So this is the one, huh?”

“Yes.”

“She don't look so special.”

“Doesn't she?” He sighed, then slammed the door and went around to get in the passenger side, while the
redhead returned to her spot behind the wheel. “Head to the Boston Center, Brookie. It's the closest one.”

“You sure you don't wanna drive?” she asked.

“I'm sure. I've had a trying evening, and I'm not sure I'm back to a hundred percent, even now. She drugged me, or I'd have been here sooner.”

“She drugged you?”

“Mmm.”

Amber felt the twit send an angry glance into the back seat and heard her mutter, “Feisty little bitch, ain't she?” prior to snapping her gum. She was driving by then, so she had to face front again soon. She said, “I waited all night. I would have come lookin' for you if you hadn't told me not to.”

Amber almost laughed at the thought of the woman traipsing through the forest in those high heeled, open-toed, suicide shoes she was wearing.

“You did the right thing,” Stiles assured her. “I hope it wasn't too awful for you.” Gross. His voice had turned sugary sweet. “It
was
pretty awful. It was dark, and I was all alone. I had to pee out in the bushes. I didn't like that one bit. And I saw a skunk.”

“I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you, though. I promise.”

Amber thought he was probably touching her then. Squeezing her hand, or something comforting and apologetic like that. Clearly their relationship was personal, intimate. Talk about an odd couple, Amber thought. A scarred, aging, evil genius and a beautiful young airhead.

Sighing, she told herself to just relax during the ride to Boston. It would give her body time to recover from her rather…energetic morning with Edge.

But as soon as she thought of him, she felt anything
but relaxed. Feelings stirred inside her, as if he'd left a part of himself behind; a part that had taken up residence beneath her skin and deep in her bones. He was there, inside her, all through her. She could smell him, feel him, taste him again, just by thinking of him. She could hear his voice, see his sarcastic little smile, and sense the passion burning between them as if it were still there.

The drive took only a couple of hours—almost the exact distance she'd managed to haul Stiles before his car had given out. Boston, that was good. Close to Salem. Close to help, should she need it. But she wouldn't.

Amber calculated the amount of time the dose of tranquilizer she'd given to Stiles had lasted and determined she needn't feign coming out of it until six hours had passed. So she continued the phony state as they pulled into a long, curving driveway and up a hill to a stylish brick house in the suburbs, surrounded by what looked like ordinary mesh fence.

She let Stiles carry her inside, noticing the eerie silence of the place as he punched codes into electronic boxes to open the gate and then the door. It felt…empty. She opened her senses briefly, trying to feel for others in the house on the hill, but she sensed no one. Two presences made themselves known to her. The dark, black, oppressive and sharp-minded essence of Stiles, and another. An intelligent, determined, manipulative essence.

She blinked, because it didn't match up with what she'd observed about the redhead. But she didn't sense a third aura. Only two. And two people, moving through the house and into a bedroom at the end of a hall. Amber was dropped onto a bed.

“Bring me the kit, Brookie.”

The bimbo hustled away with staccato steps and was back only moments later. Amber heard rattling, and then
felt the pinch when Stiles tied a rubber band around her upper arm. She braced herself, compelled her body not to stiffen or react in any way, fully aware of what was coming.

Her arm felt the cold swipe of an alcohol pad. Then the sting of a needle.

“Are you sure you need to do this?” Brookie asked.

“I told you, I'll die without it.”

“Of a degenerative blood disease,” she said.

“Yes. I need transfusions, and she's the only donor with the same rare blood type as mine. And she refuses to help me.”

He was lying through his teeth, Amber thought angrily. He didn't have any degenerative disease. He might die without her blood, but only of old age or natural causes. Obviously he didn't trust the redhead enough to tell her the whole truth.

Amber felt the strength leaving her as the blood flowed from her arm into the receptacle. Dizziness seemed to sweep in to fill the void. Weakness. Nausea. God, he couldn't be aware she was already a pint or two low.

The bag filled; he leaned closer. “Hmm, not flowing very fast today. I wonder.” He rubbed a hand along her cheek. “Best just settle for one, she's pale as a ghost.”

“What do you care?”

“Think, Brookie. If she dies, where will I get my transfusion the next time I need one?” He pressed a cotton ball to the puncture, as he pulled the needle from her arm. Then he bent it at the elbow, holding it there.

“How you gonna be sure you can get it from her anyway, the next time? She could get hit by a truck tomorrow. Or just get too smart to let you catch her again.”

“Don't you worry your pretty head about that, Brookie. I have a plan.”

“Huh?”

“Come on, Brooke. Come with me. We need to get the process going.”

“All right, Frankie.”

They left the room, closing the bedroom door behind them.

Amber opened her eyes the moment they were gone. He had a plan? Hell, that didn't bode well. Gave her chills, actually. But that wasn't where she needed to focus at the moment. She scanned the room, visually and mentally, all without moving. But she saw no cameras monitoring her, sensed no eyes observing. This place was not equipped to hold vampires captive. He was counting on the tranquilizer to keep her in line—for now. And that was to her advantage. She got to her feet, only to sink immediately to her knees. Damn, but she was weak! She pulled herself upright again, made her way to the door, tried the knob.

Locked. And given the electronics attached to every other lock in the place, she had no doubt her so-called captors would be alerted if this lock were to be tampered with. Though breaking it would pose no real challenge, once she got her strength back.

A meal would help. God, she was famished.

She took stock of her situation, examining the room. No windows. Solid looking walls. A tiny heat register. Ceiling panels. She licked her lips. Those ceiling panels might be a possibility.

But not in her current state.

The dizziness returned, and she doubled over as nausea washed over her. She barely avoided throwing up as she staggered back to the bed, crawled facedown into it, and clutched the bedding in fisted hands. What the hell was wrong with her? A second ago she'd felt starved to death. Now her stomach was rebelling.

She hugged the bed as if she could stop it from spinning around the room by doing so and gave herself permission to go to sleep. She wouldn't rejuvenate with the day sleep, the way a vampire would. She wouldn't regain her strength in the space of a few hours, and her wounds wouldn't miraculously heal as she slept. She healed faster than ordinary mortals—but not quite as fast as a vampire by day. Though she had an advantage, in that she didn't have to wait for the day sleep for the healing to begin. It could take a full day, maybe longer, to get back to her ordinary self again. But maybe she would be strong enough to do what needed doing a lot sooner.

She would probably have to be.

 

Edge landed one good blow to Donovan O'Roark's jaw before Dante gripped him from behind and flung him to the ground. He landed hard, back first, and the breath was driven from his lungs. Then he sat up slowly, as Dante towered over him.

“You need to learn some respect for your elders, boy.”

“Leave him be.” Donovan O'Roark stepped up beside Dante, rubbing his jaw with one hand. “I had that one coming.” Then he reached a hand down to Edge.

Edge scowled at him, not taking it. Instead, he got to his feet on his own.

Shrugging, Donovan turned his attention to Dante. “It's been a long time, my friend.”

“Too long,” Dante said. He extended a hand, almost hesitantly.

Donovan didn't take it. Instead, he wrapped the other man in a bear hug that should have crushed him. For a moment Dante appeared stunned. Then he returned the
embrace. “Dammit, Dante, why didn't you come back? For decades, I thought you were dead.”

“I know. I'm sorry.”

“I started hearing tales of you from others, accounts of you having lived for a time in one place or another. But always alone,” Donovan said, his face full of questions.

Edge felt as if they'd both forgotten his presence. It angered him still further, and yet he was slightly interested in the discussion. Too much so to walk away just yet.

“At first I thought you'd died, as well, when the villagers burned us out of the castle. All because of my foolishness.” Dante shook his head slowly. “I wanted no more to do with others of my kind, Donovan. And when I finally learned you'd survived, I…” He let his voice trail off.

“You assumed I would blame you for what had happened.”

“I nearly got you killed, Donovan.”

“You were betrayed. You should have known I wouldn't hate you for that.”

Dante sighed. “Eventually my beloved Morgan convinced me of the same thing. I traveled to Ireland to look you up, but you'd gone. And still…”

“And still you're racked with guilt.”

“I was your sire,” Dante said. “My job was to teach you, to protect you. I let you down.”

Edge finally spoke. “Funny, isn't it, how history repeats itself?”