Embrace the Twilight (19 page)

He had been dressed, possibly bathed, as well, but he didn't want to think about that. He was barefoot, and he didn't see his shoes anywhere nearby, much less his cane. But he wasn't chained, and he knew beyond any doubt that if he didn't get the hell out of here—now—he might never. This might be his only chance. He wasn't sure how many more times he could play the lovesick zombie convincingly.

Bullshit. It was easy, pal. Maybe a little bit too easy.

He shook away the voice in his head, told himself it didn't mean a damn thing that he hadn't really had to do all that much acting. Hell, he was a red-blooded man—assuming he had enough left in his veins to qualify. She was a beautiful, desirable woman. Even if she was a vampire. He would have to be considerably deader than she was not to want her. He would have to be ten years in the grave. It didn't mean he was becoming addicted to her. This was normal physical attraction. Powerful, yes. Hell, he'd loved the woman—loved her before he'd ever met her. But not anymore, not after what she had tried to do to him.

Only, that was a lie, and he knew it. There was something powerful gnawing at his belly that he didn't want to examine too closely. Just let it gnaw. Maybe it would get its fill. And if it didn't, hell, then maybe it
was
the blood. The addiction thing. A weakened version of the spell she'd cast over her two lap-dogs. It hadn't taken him over, as it had them. He wasn't sure why; maybe his will was too strong. But anything that felt like an emotional attachment to the woman must surely be because of it. She'd held him against his will, for God's sake, tried to make him her slave.

He lurched unsteadily to the door, tried the knob, found it unlocked. When he opened it and peered out, he saw no one. Just a long hallway, lined by an Oriental runner that was mostly red. The better to conceal the bloodstains of her victims, he told himself, even though he knew it wasn't true. She wasn't the villainess he wished he could believe she was. He followed the runner to the top of a staircase that widened at the bottom. Gripping the dark hardwood railing, he made his way down.

At the bottom he had to look up, because the room was like something out of
Lifestyles of the Ancient and Immortal.
Rich dark woods, vibrant colors, a chandelier the size of a compact car. Jesus, she liked the good life. He heard a murmur of voices and jerked his head to the left.

Edward and Misty were talking low, somewhere in the bowels of the house. Fine by him. He wasn't going that way. He walked unevenly forward, through the giant archway, into the foyer and through it to the solid double doors at its end. No glass in them. The lady liked her privacy. He gripped the brass handle and turned it.

It wasn't locked.

It struck him as odd, for just a moment, that Sarafina would leave her home unlocked. And that thought sparked another—just where the hell was she right now?

A chill chased a shiver up his spine, and he glanced over his shoulder. No one. He was getting jumpy, that was all. He opened the door and looked outside.

A lopsided moon poured milky light over the wide stone steps, the huge urns of flowers on either side and the flagstone path beyond them. There was a long curving driveway, with a gate at the end. That gate worried him. Tall wrought iron, suspended between twin stone pillars. He stumbled down the steps and started along the path to the driveway, then down the driveway to the gate. On either side of him, rows of carefully pruned hedges lined the way.

When he got to the gate, he stopped worrying. Those hedges, ten feet tall here, made right angles at the gate and marched out in either direction like a wall. Just hedges. No fence. He paused for just a moment to turn and look back at the house. It glared back at him, huge and magnificent, and he almost got the feeling it was saying good riddance.

Shaking off the eerie feeling, he pushed his way between the left side of the gate and the hedge fence. And then he discovered why Sarafina didn't think she needed a fence. The hedges were thorny. Sharp little daggers ripped into him, but he'd come too goddamn far to give up now, so he pushed through.

Thorns tore his skin. One jabbed him in his good foot, making him hop hard on the bad one, and a flash of blinding pain shot through him.

And with the pain came an image, very brief, but just as clear as springwater. Sarafina, sitting on the ground in the middle of a vast garden, with fountains and statuary all around her. Bathed in moonlight, she was leaning on the base of a stone image, head resting on her folded arms, her face hidden. And she was weeping.

Then he was jerked back to reality again as he emerged from the hedge on the far side and fell to the ground, hitting it hard. The impact knocked the wind out of him. Knocked that vision out of him, too, thank God. For a moment he'd felt this insane urge to go to her and make her explain herself. Who the hell was she, anyway? The manipulative, controlling, blood drinker, or the vulnerable, tenderhearted girl he'd known first? He still caught glimpses of that girl when Sarafina let her guard down. He felt her when they made love. He wanted her back, dammit.

It didn't matter. And though his heart ached and every emotion in it told him to go to her, his head and his survival instinct told him to keep moving and to get as far from this place as he could. He was torn for just a moment. Then his sense of duty kicked in to tip the balance. He had promised to protect two young women from harm. His first priority, above anything else, was to find Amber Lily and Alicia, and to make sure they were still safe.

He pulled himself to his feet, continuing to limp along the private driveway until he finally reached a public road. Then he flagged down the first car that passed by standing in front of it and refusing to budge even when it nearly ran him down. He demanded a ride to the nearest place with a telephone.

The driver, once he figured out that Will wasn't a criminal looking to steal his car or his wallet, suggested he take Will to the nearest hospital instead. He must have looked pretty bad. Since the guy was so willing to help, Will had him drive into the city and drop him at his apartment building. He wanted to go straight to the hotel to check on the girls, but he didn't have a room key or any ID—his wallet must have been somewhere back at Sarafina's place—and he sure as hell wasn't going to convince anyone to let him into a four-star hotel looking the way he did.

He pounded on the super's door.

It opened, eventually, and the sleepy-looking, unshaven Señor Del Orto squinted up at him. “Stone? What the hell happened? You get mugged?”

“Yeah, something like that. They got my keys, and I can't get back into my place without 'em.”

Del Orto lowered his head, shaking it. “You want me to call the police?” He frowned at Will's face, looked him up and down. “An ambulance, maybe?”

“No, I just want you to let me into my apartment.”

“No problem, no problem. Just a minute, okay?” He closed the door, undid the chain, then opened it again, holding a set of keys this time. “You take the key,” he said, prying one loose from the hundred or so on the ring. “Slide it under my door when you're finished, all right?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“De nada,”
he said, and he started to close the door again, then paused. “You sure you don't need a doctor, man?”

“It looks worse than it is.”

“If you say so. I'll get your locks changed tomorrow, okay?”

He closed the door, and Will made his way to the elevator and up to his apartment. The key worked. He headed straight for the bathroom and his pain meds. Popped one and washed it down with tap water. He would have preferred to down two, but he knew that would make him too damn drowsy to do much good. He glanced at himself in the mirror as he waited for the pills to kick in. His skin was shockingly pale, and the dark red scratches that road-mapped his face made it seem even paler. Sighing, he ran some water into the basin and made quick work of washing up. Then he located socks and shoes, a jacket, some spare cash and his extra set of car keys. He downed a protein drink and headed right back out.

By the time a taxi dropped him at the hotel, he thought he looked relatively normal, if still deathly white. He was dizzy and weak, but the pain was starting to ebb thanks to the wonders of better living through chemicals.

They gave him a spare key to his room at the front desk, and he went up, itching and eager to see the girls safely asleep in their beds.

But when he got there and slipped their lock, he found no sign of them at all. In fact, the room looked as if it had been searched. Thoroughly.

Jesus.

He hurried to his own room. While he sensed someone had been there, it wasn't trashed. Things just were not exactly as he thought he had left them. But then again, he wasn't at full capacity, either. He could be mistaken.

He opened the dresser drawer, pawed aside the contents and found what he was looking for. The little electronic tracking device. He flipped it on, nothing happened.

Either the tracker he'd planted in Amber Lily's bag wasn't functioning or it was out of range. Hell. He didn't know what to do next and was sure of only one thing—he couldn't stay awake much longer. Goddamn, the blood drinking had left him weak. Not to mention the lovemaking.

For a moment he was back there, in his mind. Exploring Sarafina's mouth with his own, her body with his own. She'd been delicious and eager and something else. Vulnerable, somehow, in a way that had surprised him. As if he had the power to destroy her with his touches, his kisses, his fevered declarations of undying love.

But that was stupid. She didn't give a damn what he felt. What he said. She couldn't possibly give a damn. She wanted to control him, like a puppet who would dance according to her whim. It hadn't felt that way, during the heights of passion, but he knew it was the truth. She'd certainly tried her damnedest to make it happen.

He pushed thoughts of Sarafina from his mind and realized that he had to phone Jameson Bryant. He was going to have to tell the man that he'd lost track of his precious daughter, fucked up the job, and had no idea where she was.

But the telephone rang and rang. There was no answer.

Will lay down on the bed in his hotel room, just for a moment. Just long enough to clear his head, to think of the smartest next move. But in the wee hours of morning, he fell asleep.

And he dreamed of Sarafina.

A
mber paced the cagelike room. Eventually the scarred man came to the barred door and peered in at her. “Hello, Amber. Sorry about the accommodations.” He shoved her backpack through the bars for her. “We did bring your things along. Minus the phone, of course. We have to be careful with your kind.”

“You're damn right you do.” She searched the hallway beyond him for something to hurl, spotted a painting on the wall behind him and sent it flying at his head.

He spun around, flinging up his arms, so it hit them instead, but the way he cursed told her it hurt like hell. Good.

“You let me out of here, mister, or you're going to be very sorry.”

“You will cooperate with us, my dear, or else you are the one who'll be sorry. Now stick your arm through the bars. We need another little blood sample.”

Amber told him to go do something anatomically impossible, in language that would have made her mother cringe, and then she hurled her energy at the light fixture above his head. It crashed to the floor, and the man barely got out of the way in time. They'd done something to her while she'd been unconscious. She didn't know what; she only knew she felt awful. Her head pounded, her muscles ached, and her chest felt odd.

“I'll tear this place apart!” she shouted as things from the room flew against the bars. Lamps, curtains, the bedside clock.

Stiles cowered away for a moment, but then a second man appeared, pulled a gun from his waistband, pointed it even as she dove for cover and pulled the trigger.

The dart jabbed her in the lower back, and once again the drug worked almost instantly.

“Dammit!” Stiles said. “The last dose had her blood pressure so low we can't be certain of the accuracy of the experiments. I told you, no more. We need her alive and in her normal state to learn anything useful.”

“This was half as much,” the other man said. “What are we gonna do, let her trash the place?”

Amber sank to the floor, fear gripping her mind, panic taking hold. She had no control over what they did to her while she was unconscious. When she woke up the last time, there had been bandages and sore spots on her arms and legs, and she wasn't sure, but she thought they'd cut off some of her hair, as well, and that was only part of it. She was sure there was more. She'd never felt so horrible in her life.

She clung to consciousness as they unlocked the barred door and came in. Stiles bent to scoop her up. She tried to fling things at him with her mind, but the objects only tipped over and fell to the floor. She tried to hit him and found her blows as weak as Alicia's would have been.

He put her on the bed, turned to his cohort. “Bring the equipment in. Let's get this over with before it wears off again.”

Her eyes widened. “No, please,” she whispered.

Stiles smiled at her. “Now it's ‘please,' is it? I thought I was going to be sorry?”

The rattling of a tray drew her gaze. The woman wheeled it in. It was stainless steel and loaded with instruments, including an electronic box with the kind of paddles they used to jump-start heart patients on
ER.
Stiles pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and picked up a tiny, shiny scalpel.

She focused on the blade, fear giving her effort one final burst of power. The blade leaped from the man's hand, spun around and drove into his palm, piercing it straight through.

He howled in pain.

“Sorry yet?” she managed to ask as the others crowded around him.

“What are we going to do with her, Stiles?” the woman asked. “Some of the tests require her to be conscious and cooperative at the same time.”

Through grated teeth he spoke to her. “We'll have her full cooperation soon enough. I expect her parents anytime now.”

And then the drug took over, plunging her into darkness.

 

Rhiannon drove her Mercedes, Roland in the front seat beside her, sitting stiffly, eyes constantly alert. To this day he had never made peace with moving vehicles. He suffered them, when necessary, or to keep her happy. He did not enjoy them.

Rhiannon loved her cars. Almost as much as she loved her aging cat. A little pang of longing hit her as they passed the exit for the town where Pandora was being boarded. But there was just no time to stop and pick up her pet. Not when precious Amber was in the hands of those bastards.

As they drew nearer, she kept glancing over her shoulder at Angelica in the back seat with Jameson. So far there was no sign the woman sensed her daughter's nearness. It worried Rhiannon.

Eventually she drove the car over winding side roads, through the wooded Connecticut countryside, toward the one-time home of Eric Marquand, Roland's dearest friend. It had been burned, ransacked, vandalized and ravaged by the whims of the sea and her storms, and their enemies, over the years. Eric and his bride Tamara had had to abandon it once the DPI had learned of its existence. Vampires who had been unfortunate enough to attract the notice of that band of vampire hunters never managed to stay in one place for very long. Rhiannon had hoped that would end once the DPI was destroyed. But obviously those hopes had been misplaced.

She pulled the car off the road, into a lot with tall pine trees lining it, the better to keep it from view. The four of them got out and began walking along the needle-cushioned road. Pine scent was strong on the air. In a few more minutes, the house came into view.

The wrought-iron fence around the place, with its patterns of leaves and twisting vines, was still intact. The gate of the same pattern had been sagging the last time Rhiannon had set eyes on it. Now it was straight and level, and looked as strong as ever.

She looked beyond it at the house, three stories of rough-hewn gray stone blocks, each one enormous in size. Its arched windows were sunken deeply into the stone. Rhiannon glanced at Jameson, saw him staring at the place intently.

“Are you all right, Jamey?” Roland asked, slipping into the old habit of calling him by his childish name.

Jameson swallowed. “It brings back memories. Not all of them good.”

“You were eleven, I believe,” Roland said, “when you squared off against a murderous grown man and saved my life, right here in this house.”

“A few days later you returned the favor,” Jameson said.

The two men exchanged a long look. They were as close as father and son, Rhiannon knew that. And even though the younger one sometimes drove her to madness with his impatience and impulsiveness, she loved him all the same.

There were spikes at the top of the fence that surrounded the place, and cliffs at the back that plummeted to the rocky shore far below. Not really a challenge for a vampire. She crouched low, then pushed off hard, clearing the fence easily. The others followed suit, and then they started up the cobblestone path to the front of the house. It had been years. The grounds hadn't been as thoroughly reclaimed as the gate and the house itself. Shrubs, once trimmed, now spread like wild things. The long-dead, thorny stalks of the roses spread over the ground, suffocating the tender new shoots that attempted to spring up in their midst. Scrub brush and weeds had been allowed to run rampant, and only the path itself remained clean and clear of debris.

“I still don't get a sense of Amber,” Angelica whispered.

“Maybe she's asleep,” Jameson said.
Or unconscious.
He didn't shield the thought fast enough. Rhiannon and the others heard it clearly.

“Or maybe she's not here at all,” Rhiannon said quickly, seeing the flush of fear in Angelica's cheeks.

She stopped before they reached the front door, holding her arms out to her sides to halt the others as something tickled at the back of her mind. “What in the world…” And then the knowledge came, with a jolt of alarm. Danger shot through her mind like an electrical current. “It's a trap!” she shouted, even as the brush around them came alive with movement.

They whirled and ran flat out for the fence, even as blinding lights flashed on, glaring down on them from all directions, and men emerged from the shadows, firing automatic weapons.

When she reached the fence, Rhiannon leaped it, hitting the ground on the other side and running for the car. It was only a few steps before she realized that she was alone.

Roland!
She shouted his name with her mind.

His reply came to her, weak but clear.
Too late,

love. They've got us. Go! Get clear, get help, and come back.

I won't be long!

Just be safe.

She dove into the car, and pressed the accelerator to the floor, squealing away into the rapidly fading night.

Get help, he'd told her. From where? Eric and Tamara were too far away to be of any use. And the only vampire she knew of who was close enough to be of any help was the one she blamed for causing this mess in the first place; the reclusive vampiress, Sarafina.

Perhaps the mortal, Willem Stone, could be of some help, as well, if he were still alive. Jameson seemed to have placed a great deal of store in the man's abilities. But she had no way to locate Stone—except through Sarafina.

And so, she supposed, that was where she must go.

She could have attempted to contact the woman mentally, but that might only give her enough warning to get away. And Rhiannon had no intention of allowing that. She pushed the car to its limits, but before she ever reached the city, the bloodred curve of the sun began to peer over the distant horizon, blasting through the darkly tinted windshield, searing her eyes, her face.

She jerked down the visor and pushed on, but soon there was smoke rolling from her hair. The delicate skin over her throat and collarbones began to blister. She was out of time. She jerked the wheel, taking the car off the exit ramp, only then realizing it was the same one that led to the ranch where Pandora was currently vacationing.

Heat, light, pain, all combined to make her grate her teeth. The steering wheel was so hot she could barely hold on to it. Her vision was filtered by a red haze. She careened onto a side road, shot down it a few hundred yards, then veered off the side, bouncing the car over a rough, grassy field and toward the woodlot beyond it. She stopped at the line of scraggly trees, then wrenched open the door. Some of the skin from her palm stayed on the door handle when she pulled her hand away and lunged out of the car, and into the trees.

Her strength was ebbing. The day-sleep was irresistibly stealing over her, but if she stopped in the sunlight, she knew she would never wake again. She pushed on, skin sizzling, mind slowly fogging over. Finally she reached a mucky bit of green-water swamp and flung herself into it.

Cool, soothing water, thick with algae and slime, wrapped around her and eased her pain. As her body sank into the soft, blessedly cold mud at the bottom, the murky ooze closed above her, blocking out the killing rays of the sun.

 

Sarafina remained in the lush, well-tended gardens, out of sight of anyone, until the uncharacteristic emotional thunderstorm had passed. She didn't want to see Willem. She didn't want to see anyone. The garden was her haven, and she remained there for the night, as if it could heal her. She couldn't recall the last time she'd shed tears. Had she cried at Dante's betrayal? If she had, it hadn't been like this. Nothing close to this.

She felt—and this was baffling to her—regret for having conquered Willem Stone's spirit. She'd never experienced any hint of remorse for having made drones of Misty or Edward. But with Willem, everything was different. Even though he had been hunting those two girls, there remained something special about him. Something unique among mortal men. And she had robbed him of that. Taken away his iron will, made him less than he had been before. Less than the man she had loved. She wished to God she hadn't done it, not to a man like him. Better to have killed him outright than to make him live that way. And while it wasn't too late to remedy that mistake, to free his spirit by taking his life, she also knew she couldn't do it. It infuriated her to find herself emotionally hobbled by her ridiculous feelings for a man. And a mortal, at that!

Wrestling with unaccustomed emotions had drained her. She dragged herself up the back steps and into the house through the rear entrance, hoping not to encounter anyone on the way to her bedroom. Dawn was close at hand. Perhaps the day-sleep would restore her to her old self, the woman with the heart encased in impenetrable ice. The woman she had been before Willem Stone.

But her path to rest was interrupted by the voices of Edward and Misty. They were speaking in excited tones somewhere in the house, and her gut told her something was very wrong. She altered her course, bursting in on them in the upstairs hallway.

“What's the matter?” she demanded.

Misty spun, eyes wide and damp. “Oh, my lady, you must forgive us! He fooled us as surely as he fooled you!” She fell to her knees, gripping the hem of Sarafina's robe.

“What are you talking about?” she demanded.