Twilight Fulfilled

7





St. Dymphna Psychiatric Hospital

Mount Bliss, Virginia


Marlene 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 something 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.

He’d had no idea that the entire modern world knew who and what he was. He was quite simply stunned. And he was pleased by the gifts they laid at his feet as they came to him. Gold, silver, jewels, fabrics.

For a time he was swept up in the adoration. But then he felt something…different.

Her.

A warm, tingling sensation danced up his spine, along the nape of his neck, tickling him there like the breath from her lips.

Brigit. She was near.

He felt her. Smelled her. Looking up, Utana searched the room for her beautiful face. What was she doing here?

“And now, my king, for your surprise,” Nashmun said.

Glancing his way, Utana lifted his brows. “I thought all of this was my…surprise.”

“In part. But there’s more.” Nashmun clapped his hands twice, and as he did, the musicians ceased their playing and began again with a new song. The drums were louder, more insistent. A door in the back of the room opened, as the lights dimmed low. And the women came through it. Dancers, dancers like the ones from his own time, with scarves trailing, and faces hidden beneath veils designed not to cover, but to entice. Their bodies moved, snakelike, as they entered the room single file, bellies bared and twisting, hips and breasts adorned with jingling coins, feet bare, except for ankle bracelets.

Their movements and the beating of the drums were impossible to separate. They were one, as they danced a serpentine path onto the platform, where they performed for him.

But his eyes were on only one.

The one in the center, who moved like no other, her eyes glued to his over the top of the veil that concealed lips he had dreamed of tasting again. Her hips snapped with the power of command, and her belly undulated as if with a life of its own.

Her eyes did not release his as she danced.

And he did not release hers.

“You are pleased, my king?”

“I am…more than pleased. You’ve done well. I would ask only one more thing of you, my faithful vizier.”

Nashmun must have smiled. Utana felt him smile, but he could not look away from the beautiful Brigit long enough to know for sure. “I think I’ve already guessed what that might be, my lord. Several of the dancers are prepared to see to any other…needs you might have. In your chambers tonight.”

“I want only one,” he said, his eyes on Brigit.

Nashmun followed Utana’s eyes to the beauty who danced like no other. He frowned slightly at her. “Who is…?”

But he stopped there. Utana saw Brigit’s beautiful pale blue eyes shift to meet Nashmun’s. He saw the power they held, those eyes, and he focused his mind on hers to hear her thoughts.

Yes, she told the vizier. I belong here. You hired me personally. You trust me implicitly. I am your favorite in the troupe, and you will grant me anything I desire.

Her hips began to shimmy as the drumbeat grew more rapid.

Anything.

Anything.

Anything.

“Yes, anything,” Nashmun whispered.

“What did you say?” Utana asked, privately amused by his golden goddess’s power over mortal men.

“Um, nothing. But yes, I’ll see to it, my lord.”

“Good.” Utana lifted his cup, draining it of the wine it held, than handed it to his vizier, with whom he was more pleased than ever before. “More wine.”



Brigit’s skirt was made of several layers of shiny satin in a deep jewel-tone like the sea itself, and over them flowed sheer layers of paler blue and purple that mimicked the many shades of the sky at twilight. Her hip scarf of teal and green rode low, coins jingling with every move she made. Her belly was bare from hips to breasts, which were cradled in a heart-shaped scrap of material that somehow managed to boost her cleavage to a formerly unknown degree. The top was fringed in green, and at the end of each strand hung yet another coin-shaped metal bangle. When she shimmied, they shimmied, and the effect on the crowd was gratifyingly mesmerizing.

Idiots.

Sheer, oversize scarves draped from her arms, and she whirled them skillfully and far beyond the abilities of the professionally trained dancers who surrounded her. But then again, no vampire blood ran in their veins, nor had they been personally coached by an Egyptian high priestess who’d probably been there when the dance was invented.

They didn’t have the power to influence the minds of mere mortals as she did. They didn’t have the physical strength to move the way she did. She put them all to shame.

And just as she had hoped, Utana couldn’t take his eyes off her. They were glued to her—and not to her face, either. She twisted her body in slow, sensual undulations that mimicked the heaving waves of the ocean. Those waves moved over her, from her thighs to her hips, to her belly, to her chest. Her arms, long and strong, were like cobras dancing to the tune of a snake charmer. Her hips circled slowly, then snapped to one side, circled the other way, then snapped again, and the bangles sang their hypnotic song, matching the drumbeats that pounded like the hearts of every male in the room.

Oh, she had him. He was getting hard just looking at her. She knew it. There was no way he was going to let her leave this palace tonight. He would insist on taking her to his bedchambers, and he would also insist on complete privacy, despite knowing what she was here for. She was willing it. And he would comply, despite his awareness that he would be risking his own life, and foolishly so. He would comply because his ego was too big to admit that she was any threat to him. And because his penis was going to be doing all the talking anyway.

No man could resist the magic of the dance when it was wielded as it was originally intended; as a ritual, as a spell, as an enchantment. As the embodiment of pure feminine power. The power of the goddess herself.

She felt that power rising in her, just as Rhiannon had always told her it would. Utana would not give her identity away to his lying, scheming, scar- faced sidekick. If he did, they wouldn’t let her stay. And he wanted her to stay. He wanted it more than he wanted to draw another breath.

She had him.

He smiled, almost as if reading her mind, and she felt her eyes widen in alarm, realizing she’d been so caught up in her own sex appeal that she’d forgotten to block her thoughts.

Lifting a hand, he crooked a finger at her, beckoning her closer.

It would look odd if she refused. Clearly everyone here had been instructed to treat him like the King of the World. Poor Utana was the only one not in on the joke. This entire evening was some kind of giant deception. The people around him, claiming to be the current leaders of the nations of the world, were nothing more than actors, playing roles. Deceiving him, lying to him. All in the employ of the DPI. She almost felt sorry for him. And yet she, too, was deceiving him.

Straight to the grave, perhaps.

She sidestepped down from the raised platform, one arm up high, one out straight, wrists circling, hips snapping with each step. Her entire body took part in the dance as she writhed her way closer and still closer to him, feeling him, his desire, his arousal, his manliness, with every step she took. He rose to his feet as she reached him.

She stopped inches from his body, arms overhead, snaking over each other as her hips swirled in an endless figure eight that brushed his groin lightly with every pass.

He took the final step, closing the space between them, so that every inch of her body undulated against his.

“You have no idea how glad I am to see you, Lady Moonlight,” he said for her ears alone.

She lifted her brows and spoke just as softly. “Your English has improved dramatically.”

“I learn rapidly.”

“But what’s up with this Lady Moonlight bit?”

“It is what you remind me of. Moonlight.” He ran the back of one hand over her cheek to her chin, to her neck. “Pure. Mystical. Secretive. Potent.”

Shivering with pleasure at his touch, Brigit reminded herself that she was supposed to be making him lose his mind with desire, not the other way around. And yet she couldn’t move away, could she? Not if she were going to keep this illusion intact. The others must continue to believe she was a part of this ridiculous charade. If she did anything out of character, the glamour she had cast over them would falter. She was only a quarter vampire. Holding a roomful of liars in her thrall was an effort.

Particularly with Utana distracting her this way.

“Besides,” Utana said, “I presume you do not wish for my vizier to know you for who you really are. You took a grave chance in coming here—even with the veil, you are a woman few men could forget easily.”

“I had to see you again,” she whispered.

“And so you shall.” He leaned his head closer, so that his nose was barely touching her neck, and he inhaled her scent as he moved up to her ear.

Her knees turned to water.

“You will continue to dance for me until I say otherwise. Or I will tell them who you are and have you arrested.”

Her eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”

“Dare you put that to the test?” His gaze intensified, holding hers.

Softly, almost against her own will, Brigit heard herself whisper, “No…”

Quickly she looked away. God, he was powerful.

“Your eyes will remain on mine. You will look at no other.”

She bit her lip to prevent vocalizing her absolute consent. But he felt it all the same; she saw it in his satisfied smile.

“Return to the stage, then,” he said, trailing his hand down her back, pausing on her backside and squeezing it hard. “And make those coins jingle all the way.” He smacked her as she turned and obeyed, shimmying as she moved across the room and back up onto the stage, wondering what on earth she’d just got herself into.