Twilight Illusions (18 page)

Then he straightened, standing between her legs with an arousal so hard it was painful. He stared down at her, bared to him, and he told himself he couldn't do this. He shouldn't…

“If you stop this time, I
will
shoot you,” she whispered. “I don't want to hear any more of this craziness. I just want you.”

He knew it was wrong, knew she was as afraid as she was aroused. And yet he sank his fingers into the silken curls between her thighs. He parted her folds, and explored her tight, damp center. He found the tiny nub, and pinched it between his fingers. She closed her eyes and cried out.

“Shannon, I—”

“I don't care! What have I got to lose, Damien? Dammit, make love to me!”

He prayed she wouldn't regret that command, even as he unfastened his pants to free his throbbing erection. He saw her gaze fasten to that part of him; he felt the touch of her eyes burning him. Placing his palms to her inner thighs, he spread her wider, and stared at the delectable feminine morsel before him. Then her hand closed around him and pulled gently. She guided him up tight to her slick center, squeezed him hard and let him go. Her gaze held his as she lay back on the desk, hips arcing toward him, waiting.

He sank into her slowly, gradually, deeper and deeper until there was no more of him to offer. He pressed tight to her, and she sighed long and coarse. Her hands clutched his buttocks. His hands closed tight around her waist, better to hold her to him. That grip tightened as he withdrew, and this time, he was not gentle when he plunged into her. Again, he pulled back, holding her imprisoned between his strong hands as he thrust once more. Her muscles tightened around him, as if wanting to keep him there forever. She lifted her head and shoulders from the desk, reached for him with her mouth, and he responded, bending over her, kissing her. He made love to her mouth as hard and deep and as urgently as he was making love to her body.

And then she went still, her entire body stiffening, her hands clenching, her breaths stopping for an interminable moment. He felt the tightening around him. An instant later she screamed aloud, and her body spasmed its release in waves that forced him to respond in kind. He spilled his essence into her, feeling as if it were drained from his toes. And then he sank onto her beautiful body, and he held her in his arms.

 

Watching their frenzied coupling from the fire escape, Anthar swore viciously in Sumerian and then in Babylonian and finally in English. He'd waited, waited endlessly for Damien to give in to his lusts and take the woman. And he had; at long last, he had. But he'd failed to drink from her. Somehow he'd overcome the instinct as powerful as nature itself, and he'd refrained from even a sip. Dammit! If Damien had so much as
tasted
her nectar, Anthar might have found an opportunity to separate them, finish her off and leave her for Damien to find. He'd have believed himself the villain. He'd have gone insane with remorse and grief and self-loathing. Why the hell hadn't the bastard tasted her?

Now Anthar would have to wait for another opportunity. And judging by the girl's health there might not be one. He hadn't realized how close she was to her end. If she died, his opportunity for the perfect revenge would die with her. Damien had to be driven to suicide. It was the only way to ease the agony of Anthar's wrath.

After all, that was the way Siduri had died.

Siduri. Ah, how beautiful she'd been, and how he'd wanted her. He might have had her, too. Anthar had often visited her little cottage by the sea. But alas, the Great Gilgamesh had stopped there, half dead and half mad, filthy and exhausted and starving. He'd paused on his quest for immortality, just long enough to destroy the life of an innocent barmaid. And she'd taken him in. She'd fed him, clothed him and held him in her arms to ease his pain. And when he'd recovered, he'd left her, cold snake that he was. He'd never once looked back, never once paid heed to her pitiful begging of him to stay.

He didn't even know how much she'd loved him, never learned of how she'd died.

She'd just walked into the sea. Just kept walking until she could walk no more. Then she'd swum. And like him, she'd never looked back.

Only Anthar knew. For he had her words, engraved in the stone tablet, written in the script she'd been forbidden as a woman to learn. She'd learned anyway. She'd learned from Anthar himself. And many other things, as well.

So beautiful, so bright. Dead because of Gilgamesh, as surely as if he'd choked her life away with his own two hands.

Gilgamesh would pay. Yes, he would, by whatever means necessary. He would pay by losing what he most loved.

S
he curled into his arms, trembling and all but limp, as Damien struggled to put her clothes back into place. It wasn't easy. When he tried to rise away from her, she clamped her arms around his neck and fought not to let him go. When he gently removed them and stood back, righting his own apparel, he saw tears gliding silently down her cheeks.

“Ah, Shannon…” He gathered her up, standing her on her feet and holding her to his chest. But her legs seemed rubbery and weak. She sank once, then stiffened her knees as if by sheer will. She cupped his face between her hands, searched it through the pools in her eyes.

“It isn't true. I knew it. It's all just nonsense. Bachman's crazy.” Her words tumbled over one another in their haste to break free. “You're no monster. No monster could make love to me the way you just did. Tell me, Damien. Say it.” She kissed his mouth, his cheeks, his eyes. “I've never felt this way before. Not for anyone, Damien. Only you, so you have to tell me it's all a lie. A dream. Make-believe.” Again she kissed him, his jaw, his neck. Desperation making her tremble. He caught her shoulders to stop the madness, but she rushed on. “Yes, make-believe. An illusion, just like in your act. That's all it is. Illusion. Say it, Damien…”

The trembling increased, and he felt her kisses heating. Not with passion, but with fever.

He caught her face, held her away from him just a little. Her skin glowed milky white, with those telltale apples beginning to shine in her cheeks. Her eyes already dulled and took on that unfocused quality.

“Dammit,” he muttered. “Dammit, not again.”

“Jus' hold me.” Her whispered words slurred into one another. “I'll be all right…long's'you hold me.” She melted against his chest.

He closed his arms around her, scooped her up into them. He stared down at her relaxed face, her hooded eyes, and he felt a pain beyond all endurance. Something cold and hot all at once, freezing and burning his heart until the organ split into a hundred bits. He couldn't stand to see this, to see her suffer this way, to watch her die.

He clenched his fists as he held her, and cried out loud in his agony, the words in the old language. One no living man could know. He cried her name, and Enkidu's, and he cursed the gods and the world and life and death and pain. And then he buried his face in her hair and he wept hot, bitter tears.

Her warm, satin palm rested softly on his cheek. “Don't cry. I didn't want this…didn't want…didn't mean to love you….”

He lifted his head, staring at her in shock. She smiled very slightly, “I wish…I didn't have to die…to leave you…like this.” And then her amber eyes fell closed.

“Damien.”

He turned slowly, but couldn't take his eyes from Shannon long enough to look at Eric Marquand.

“Damien, you must bring her away from here. There's danger.”

“Look at her, Eric….” Damien shook his head fast, as if denying his own words. “It's different this time, darker. More insidious.”

Eric stepped forward and bent close to Shannon. When he straightened again, his face was grim. “I'm sorry. Damnably sorry.”

Damien looked up, brows lifted, the question he couldn't voice settling in his eyes.

“She'll slip into coma before this night is out. She won't wake, I fear. The end is close.”

“No….” Damien's knees buckled. He fell onto them, clutching her limp form to him, bowing double as he held her, rocked her.

“Come, Damien. Bring her to the house I've rented. Bachman's been following you and Shannon, not me. I'm sure he knows nothing about the arrangements I've made tonight.” Damien didn't move. “Come, at least we can make her comfortable, keep her warm.”

Damien nodded, mute with pain, unable to speak.

Blasphemous bastard, it's less than you deserve!

He stopped in midstep, tilting his head and frowning toward Eric for silence. Pure rage filled his mind, the thoughts, bitter with hatred, rang clear in his brain. But from where, or whom?

Watch her die, you dog! Watch her die and wish for death yourself, for I'll bring it to you soon enough, Gilgamesh of Uruk.

Just as suddenly as it had come, the sensations flooding his mind vanished. Damien shook himself, then glanced at Eric. “Did you hear it?”

“Faintly. The message was directed to you.”

“How many others…like us…are there here?” He hadn't believed there were any besides the two of them in Arista, until now. Now he wondered.

“None, Damien. We'd know if there were. They'd have no reason to hide their presence from us.”

“But they could? If they wanted to, they could?”

One brow bunching lower than the other, Eric nodded.

“It was a vampire, Eric. I'm sure it was. One who knows me.” Damien bolstered himself after being thoroughly shaken by feeling such a rush of pure hatred flashing through his consciousness. He focused instead on Shannon, and the pain overshadowed everything else. “I can't even take her home. Not with Bachman planning to raid the place in search of me.”

“He won't come near until dawn. It's still early. We'll be secure enough for the night, at least. We can make other plans from there. Come.”

Moments later, Damien tucked Shannon's pliable form onto the chaise in the circular room. He sensed she'd rather rest here, near the fire, than upstairs alone in the big bedroom. She liked this room. Eric bent to add logs to the fire, as Damien sat beside her and stroked her hair.

“Oh, my! What's happened to her?”

Damien glanced up, seeing Netty's worried face, forgetting her possible betrayal in his concern for Shannon. “She's sick, Netty. Very sick.”

“She needs a doctor, she does.” The woman hustled forward, quick steps bringing her beside the chaise. She reached for Shannon's hand and grasped it to her breast.

“There's nothing they can do for her.” Damien's voice broke, and he let his head bow. His neck seemed too limp to hold it any longer.

“You mean, she's dying?”

He bit his trembling lips until he drew blood.

Eric turned away from the fire. “Netty, some blankets for her, if you will. We can only keep her warm and—”

Netty backed away slowly, her face a jumble of confused emotions. “No, sir. No, sir, this isn't right!” She shook her head fiercely. “He said she'd be all right. He said it was all on account of the spell you'd put on her—” She broke off, eyes going even wider. When Damien's head came up slowly, she searched his face. “But you didn't put this on her. I can see that now, you didn't. Oh, Lord, what have I done?”

Eric stepped forward, coming between Damien and Netty even as Damien rose to his feet. “You're talking about Bachman, aren't you?”

Netty nodded, her gaze meeting Damien's again. “He said no harm would come to you! He said it was all to save Shannon. He told me you were…you were…” She shuddered and looked at the floor. “Demon spawn. Said she'd die unless I helped him.”

“And you told him about the secret room on the third floor.” Damien could barely control his rage.

She bit her thick lower lip, tears coursing down her face now. “Bachman said she'd die if I didn't tell. I only wanted to help the girl!”

“I ought to tear your heart out—”

“Shut up, Damien!” Eric held one arm out to his side to keep Damien from walking past him. Not that he could have actually stopped him. “Netty, it's not too late to redeem yourself. I intercepted the note you left at the hotel—”

She groaned softly. “I phoned him later. He knows, he does.”

“Tell us what Bachman is planning,” Eric coaxed.

She nodded hard, still glancing every few seconds at Damien, fear mingling with the remorse in her eyes. “I was to let him in at first light. He wanted to look at the room where you sleep.”

“What he
wants
is to murder me in my sleep, you foolish woman.”

“I didn't know. I swear it!”

Damien glared at her, then turned again to resume his vigil over Shannon. “I can't think about this right now. I—” He broke off with a shake of his head.

“Is it true, then? What Bachman says you are?”

“Netty, what kind of idiot would believe such nonsense?” Eric asked, with a laugh in his voice. “Bachman is insane, a fan gone over the edge. Surely you've heard of this happening before, stalkers plaguing stars of all sorts.” He paused, and Netty nodded, thoroughly engrossed. “So, Bachman has convinced himself that Damien's stage identity is the real thing, and cast himself in the role of vampire slayer.” Eric stepped forward, touched Netty's arm. “He's
dangerous,
Netty. He really means to kill Damien.”

“And I almost helped him do it!” she cried. She buried her face in her hands, sniffling loudly. “I'm sorry, Mr. Namtar.”

He didn't care, didn't even acknowledge her apology. He was too enveloped in pain to feel anything else. “Just go. Go, both of you. Leave us alone.”

Netty broke into tears and ran from the room.

Eric came and knelt beside him. “It won't be safe here beyond darkness. You know that.”

“I'll take her out of here before then.”

“And go where?”

Damien shrugged, staring hard at Shannon, thinking of the words she'd whispered to him before her eyes had closed. “I don't know. It doesn't matter, really.”

“Shall I return for you—”

“No. You've done enough. Keep your distance now, Eric. I don't need an audience, let alone any help for this grief. It's an old, familiar companion.”

Eric nodded once, and backed away.

 

So alive. He'd never known anyone to be as much alive as she'd been. The sparkle of mirth in her eyes. Her delighted laughter. Her ferocity when she felt cornered or bullied or threatened in any way.

It had been a very long time since Damien had shared laughter with anyone. He had with her, he realized dully. Over and over again, she'd made him smile. She'd filled his loneliness with her constant presence. She'd brought joy and tenderness back into his existence.

And now she was dying. Leaving him to walk alone, as Enkidu had done. Leaving him, just when it seemed their goal of finding her friend's murderer was within reach. Just when he'd learned of another, a fiercely angry, vampire in the city. One who hated him—

He blinked slowly as he realized the implication of what he'd just thought. Another vampire. One who hated Damien beyond all reason.

He'd
been responsible for those deaths! And driven by his own demons had staged them to look like Damien's work. That had to be the answer.

A light flickered somewhere in the endless night of his soul. He
wasn't
a murderer. The thirst hadn't taken control of him. More proof of that lay in what had transpired between the two of them before she'd succumbed to this illness. He'd made love to her. Frenzied, passionate, obsessive love to her. But he hadn't tasted her life's blood. He'd remained in control, despite the lust for her that raged inside him.

His reason before for not transforming her had been simple. He'd been suffering with the thought that he might be a killer, and couldn't bear to see her suffer the same someday. That reason was gone now. His other reason had been a selfish one. He hadn't wanted to let himself love her. He hadn't wanted to risk the kind of hurt he'd known before.

But it was already too late to avoid that. And if she were immortal, maybe he wouldn't have to lose her at all.

He looked at her, stretched out on the chaise like an offering to a demon god. Would she want it? Would she have accepted the dark magic if he'd offered it to her while she'd been able? Could she bear a life without daylight, without the kiss of the sun? Could she abide the notion of her eternal soul bound forever to her eternal body?

He swore viciously and turned away. He couldn't make that decision for her. He couldn't! No matter how much he loved her, how it would tear him apart to see her die. He had no right.

Tears swam in his eyes. He didn't battle them. He buried his face in his hands and felt his shoulders quake with sobs. And then her hand rose, touched his back.

He turned, sliding onto his knees on the floor. He clutched her hand, kissed it, then bent to kiss her face.

“I'm…sorry,” she whispered. “I should…have warned you.”

“It wouldn't have changed anything, Shannon.” He'd have loved her even if he'd known all along. He was certain of that.

She stared up into his eyes, her own damp, unfocused and glittering with the firelight's reflection. She blinked at the tears, but more quickly flooded to take their place. This time she let them come and her hand clutched his tighter. “I'm so afraid.”