Twilight Fulfilled

6





Utana sat in a small but comfortable seat near a round porthole, and watched the ground beneath him grow smaller and smaller as they rose, carried in the belly of the oversize man-made bird, until at last they ascended into the clouds and the ground became invisible.

“We are flying,” he whispered, awed. And then, despite the rolling and tumbling of his stomach, he searched the skies.

“What are you looking for, my king?” Nashmun asked.

“An. The abode of the gods.”

There had been mild amusement in the other man’s tone, though Utana did not look to see if the expression on his face matched it. Did Nashmun dare to laugh at him?

“No one has ever seen it. Though we have flown as high as the moon itself.”

“No!” Utana’s eyes snapped toward the other man to see if he was making fun of him, taunting his apparent innocence by telling such a wild lie.

But Nashmun appeared serious. “Yes. We’ve sent spaceships to the moon and beyond, but we haven’t yet found heaven—um, An, as you call it.”

Utana mulled on that for a moment and then nodded. “The gods made it…un-visible.”

“Invisible.”

“Yes. They do not reveal it lest man ascend before he is worthy.”

“That’s probably it.”

Utana bent his brows, certain this time of the sarcasm in the other man’s tone and expression. “You do not believe.”

“My king, I don’t pretend to know one way or the other. Many people in this time no longer believe in the existence of gods and demons.” Nashmun shrugged. “Then again, most of them didn’t believe in the existence of vampires until recently. So who’s to say what’s real and what’s not?”

“I say,” Utana told him, angered and insulted—shocked in fact—that anyone would doubt something as real to him as day and night, or sun and moon. “If the gods are not real, who sent the Great Flood? Who allowed me to survive it? Who granted me life eternal, and then punished me so harshly when I shared that gift? Who, if not the gods themselves?”

The man bowed his head deeply. “You are right, of course, Utana, and I’m sorry if my words offended you.”

“Best you remember, Nashmun. In my time, I was not king only. I was priest, also. And while the mantle of rulership is temporary, the initiation into the service of the gods is forever. A priest once is a priest always.” Utana turned his eyes toward the sky once more. “I will pray to them now. Surely they will hear me well, this close to their abode.”

Nashmun nodded rapidly, perhaps made nervous by the passion with which Utana had spoken. “I’ll, um, I’ll go up to the cockpit with the pilot for a bit, to give you some privacy. But be very careful moving around. If we hit turbulence—um, rough air, heavy wind—” he clarified, gesturing wildly to illustrate “—the plane will shake. You might fall down.” He started to walk away, up the aisle, then paused to look back. “Also, it would be unwise—dangerous, even—to make any fires inside the airplane, all right?” He opened his fingers, palm in front of his eyes, when he said the word fires.

Utana nodded, smiling slightly at the way the man gestured with his hands, as if he were speaking to a dull-minded person, or perhaps to one who could not hear at all.

The “fire” gesture reminded Utana of the way Brigit had flicked her fingers open when trying to kill him. Beautiful, the way she moved. Everything about her was beautiful. He’d committed a grave sin against her, as he’d held her in his arms the night before. Just as he had against her brother. And he wondered if it mattered, given that he was going to kill them both in order to fulfill the dictates of the gods. And yet he felt in his soul that what he had done was wrong. And he wondered if Brigit had yet discovered his crime.

The notion made him uncomfortable with guilt. She had hated him already. She would hate him more once she knew—if there were more hatred in her. And even as he acknowledged that, he remembered the way it had felt to hold her while she slept. The weight of her head upon his chest, and the warm whisper of her breaths against his skin. The scent of her.

An odd yearning seemed to open like a gaping hole in his chest, longing to be filled once again with her presence. Her nearness.

He put a stop to his thoughts. The feeling was doing him little good, and moreover, it was distracting him from an opportunity to speak to the gods from a place nearer to them than he had ever been before.

Easing himself from his seat, Utana faced the small row of windows and dropped to his knees, shifting several times before finding any comfort at all in the strange garments he now wore. Mankind had made many advancements since his time. “Pants,” however, were not among them.

Bowing his head, he closed his eyes and spoke in his own tongue, that the gods might understand him better. He hoped they would recognize him in this strange land, wearing this foreign garb.

“Ancient and Mighty Ones,” he said in the ancient tongue of his ancestors. “The Seven Who Decree the Fates. Enlil of the Sky, Anu of the Heavens, Enki of the Great Abyss, Nanna of the Moon, Inanna his daughter and Queen of the Gods, Ninmah the Lady of Earth and Mountains, Utu of the Fiery Sun. Gods of old, I call upon you now. It is I, Utanapishtim, whom you first knew as Ziasudra, your loyal priest and servant, the Flood Survivor, the Immortal One. Yes, it is I.”

He paused, waiting in silence, giving them time to recognize him, to remember. Until the past few days, it had been a very long time since he’d prayed.

When he thought enough time had passed, he dared to open his eyes and stared out the portholes before him, almost expecting to see them staring back at him. But he saw only clouds and blue sky.

Again he bowed his head, closed his eyes. “Mighty Ones, I beg your forgiveness for my sins. Long have I suffered your wrath, but now my suffering is compounded anew. I beg of you, set for me some other task of repentance. Remove from me the burden of this path I walk upon. Do not force me to murder the children of my soul. The golden one, in particular, the beautiful Brigit, who is like the sun to me. Surely she is blessed by Utu, to shine as she does, and by Inanna, to fight so fiercely and possess so much passion. Surely you cannot wish for me to destroy a being of such splendor, such fire. For to do so would be a sin against life itself. Please, send me a sign. Please, ask of me anything else. Anything but this.”

The man, Nashmun, emerged from beyond a small door near the bill of the great bird. “I’m sorry to interrupt. We’ll be landing soon. You should sit, my king, in order to be safe.”

Utana did not lift his head, for to reveal the tears that stained his cheeks would be to show far more weakness than he would ever reveal to another male. Instead he only nodded and returned to his seat, relieved that they had not traveled so far as he had feared they might, for only a very short time had passed since they had left the earth behind.

Nashmun took his spot beside Utana, retrieving, before he sat, a small black box that he had left upon the seat. Yet another of this time’s amazing electronic devices. This one had buttons and a small glowing red light. Nashmun pressed one of the buttons, and the light went out. Then he dropped the device into his coat pocket. “You should buckle your seat belt, Utana. Just as you did when we first took off.”

Nodding, Utana did so. Although he had to wonder how much good anyone might presume the thin band of fabric would do, should the machine fail and send them crashing to the earth. Still, it seemed easier to comply than to question. And it was, after all, not the most illogical thing he’d observed among modern man.



A very short time later Utana emerged from yet another “car,” although this one was a far different sort of car from the one Nashmun had driven, and in fact he did not drive it at all. Instead a servant sat behind the wheel. This car was long and gleaming black, and as plush inside as a miniature palace. There were cabinets with refreshments inside, tiny discs of ice to make the beverages cold, kept frozen by a tiny box that stayed cold inside. An amazing luxury. Oh, to have had such a device in the desert!

And yet, even the luxury the vehicle afforded paled in comparison to the place where it eventually delivered him.

This was an actual palace, one unlike any he’d seen before. Smaller than a ziggurat, yes, but elaborate, and so beautiful it took his breath away. Its surface was covered in gleaming tiles and trimmed in gold. There were onion-shaped domes that reflected the very light of the sun. Its entryway was an elaborate double arch, with a pointy peaked center that had been raised up over a tiled walkway. That elaborate path of brightly colored tiles wound amid fountains and flowering plants of all sorts and led to a pair of golden doors.

Indeed, this place rivaled the palaces of his own time.

He tried not to show how very impressed he was, lest Nashmun become swollen with pride. He’d always found an overabundance of praise the fastest way to a lazy servant.

His vizier stood at his side. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

“It is…quite beautiful,” Utana agreed. “He who lives here must be very important in your land.”

“No one lives here, Utana. This place is kept for visitors, rulers and royalty from distant lands. For the time being, you may consider it your home.”

Blinking in surprise, Utana said, “Mine alone?”

“Well, of course it will be fully staffed. And I’ll be there most of the time, as well. But yes, this is your home…for as long as you wish it, as a matter of fact.”

“It is…” Utana looked again, almost afraid to believe it could be true. There was a tall gleaming golden barricade, with bars that looked like golden spears with their points aiming skyward, that surrounded the palace grounds. “It is beautiful. I am grateful.”

“Just wait until you see the inside,” Nashmun said, smiling broadly and clearly delighted with Utana’s reaction. “Come.” They walked beneath the arches, between the flowers and fountains to the golden doors. A uniformed servant opened them, bowing low. “Your Highness.”

Surprised that the man was addressing him, and even more so that he seemed aware of his rank, Utana nodded at the servant and then gazed beyond the doors as they swung open.

The room before him nearly left him speechless. A huge, round, domed ceiling, gleaming golden fixtures. The room gleamed with light, and the floor was covered with plush, brightly patterned carpets edged in golden tassels. Jewel-colored cushions and pillows lay everywhere he looked. Tables of gleaming wood and colorful tiles spilled over with fruits and pastries, all of them presented in dishes of gold. A pitcher, too, with a golden goblet beside it, awaited him.

“I’m afraid we haven’t hired all the household servants just yet. We have three fabulous chefs—er, cooks, and plenty of housekeepers. However, your personal servants are still being interviewed.”

“I will require dancers.”

Nashmun lifted his brows, then masked his apparent surprise and nodded. “Of course. I’ll see to it. I’m sure there are other requests—commands—that will occur to you as you rest and recover here, my king. But aside from all of that, will this palace do?”

Looking around, Utana spotted stairs that began as one, then spread away to become two, leading upward to the second floor. “Yes,” he said softly. “This palace will do. It will do very well.” Turning, and finally allowing a feeling of absolute relief to enter his weary body and wary mind, he looked into Nashmun’s eyes. “You have done very well, my vizier. And I thank you.”

He could tell that his servant was pleased. He nearly beamed at the compliments of his king. And Utana decided that he could trust this man after all.



Three days.

Three freaking endless days, Brigit had been casing the place that could best be described as the Taj Mahal’s “mini-me” and trying to figure out a way to get inside. And now she’d found one.

It hadn’t been easy. She’d opted to drive to D.C. rather than flying commercial. It was supposed to be a fourteen-hour haul, but she’d made it in ten, doing ninety and better most of the way, and stopping only for gas, food and the restroom.

It was worth the extra time to have her car and all her supplies with her. On arriving, she’d headed to the Virginia airstrip the helpful security guard in Maine had mentioned by name—with a little help from her mental powers of persuasion. Of course, by then the sleek black jet had long since landed, and the men who’d been aboard it were nowhere in sight.

She’d had to exert her vampiric powers over five different mortals there before she’d finally found one who knew where they had gone—one who worked for the limo service that had picked them up.

And so she’d managed to extract an address to this…this Arabian palace, where her quarry was being treated like a king by a DPI agent who only wanted to use him as a weapon against the Undead. Apparently this government bastard didn’t realize that wiping out her people was already Utana’s goal.

Unless he’d changed his mind.

Maybe he was experiencing the same feelings of remorse she’d been having. If she could just win him over, convince him that he was mistaken, that killing her people was not what his gods wanted him to do… That creating the vampire race was not the reason he’d been trapped, his consciousness bound to his ashes for five thousand maddening years. Maybe her efforts to talk sense into him were sinking in. Maybe the DPI had anticipated as much and was taking precautions.

It was tough to see inside from this distance, and she dared not get close enough to Utana to alert him to her presence before she was ready to move in.

But one thing she had learned while lurking around outside the grounds, always out of sight, had shocked her to the core.

She’d had her first full-frontal look at the phony Good Samaritan who’d abducted her quarry, and she’d gasped aloud when she’d seen his cold gray eyes and the scar that marred his face from the left eye to the dimpled center of his chin.

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.