Twilight Prophecy

22


Lucy left her bike beyond the nearly empty parking lot nearest the Archaeology/Anthropology building and walked past the handful of cars, hoping no one would recognize her. Passing a parked VW Bug, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in a window and stumbled to a clumsy stop as she stood there, staring. No, no one would recognize her, she realized. She barely recognized herself.

But it was her own reflection staring back at her. Not the old one, though. Not the bookish, shy, introverted and usually nervous professor. This woman was an adventurer, an avenger, a woman who ran with vampires and their kin.

And now she was trying to save their whole race, just the way James had been trying to do. Who the hell had she become? Had she bitten off a chunk of his delusions of grandeur? Had his cause been infectious somehow?

Or was it just her tendency to root for the underdog and sympathize with anyone persecuted for being different? After all, she’d always been different, too.

Right now she only knew she had to try to make up for the wrong she’d done to James, and the wrench she’d thrown into his plans. Hell, into his destiny.

She walked on, leaving her reflections—both literal and figurative—behind.

The building was closed for the summer, but she had a key. All the professors in the department did, so they could come and go if they needed to, though use of the offices during the summer months was discouraged. It was when the maintenance crews had the run of the place, giving it a summer scrubbing, painting where it was needed and adding new coats of shellac to the hardwood floors.

She went around to the back, rather than entering through the front doors, then skirted the loading dock with its big overhead door and overall-wearing handymen wandering in and out. The side entrance would be fine. It was a simple door in a solid brick wall, and you could walk past it without even noticing it was there. She slid her key card into the slot, the lock clicked, and just like that she was inside, with no one the wiser.

She avoided the workers easily as she made her way to the stairwell, and tried to be quiet as she opened that door and headed down to the sublevel. The basement. Her real domain.

She had to use her key card again to enter the work and storage room that held all the untranslated fragments of ancient stone. When she stepped inside, she was holding her breath, though she didn’t realize that until she finally let it out with a whoosh. She’d half expected that same alien feeling to overtake her here as it had at home. The feeling that she’d outgrown the place, that she no longer belonged here.

But no. This place still fit. It fit like her father’s old worn-out fedora had fit his head. She’d never felt worthy to wear it, but it hung in her home, over the mantel, above a photo of her and her parents, the three of them arm in arm in the desert.

Sighing, she shook off the memories, unsure why thoughts of her family had chosen to plague her just then, when she had so much else going on. Lives at stake, lives only she could save.

Maybe.

She slid her backpack off and set it on an empty chair, flipped on the high-intensity overhead lights and moved to the wall full of drawerlike bins in the back. They flanked a second door, which led out into parts of the vast university basement the students never saw and, eventually, to the loading dock just outside.

It wasn’t the door but the bins on which she focused. Each drawer was tagged with the alphanumeric code that told her where its contents had been recovered, and when. She knew the section with the bins from the 1954 dig in Northern Iraq. She knew it well. She spent most of her time working on the hundreds of bits of clay tablet from that section.

In fact, she’d spent countless hours scanning broken clay pieces in search of those that might possibly belong with the tablet she’d translated. The one that had given her fifteen minutes of fame and then proceeded to tear her life to bits. There were a hundred still to be checked, give or take. She pulled out that bin, took it with her to the table and unloaded each piece with care. Then she grabbed her supersized magnifying glass and her stiff-bristled brush, put on her headlamp and sank into a chair that bore the imprint of her backside, thanks to all the hours she’d spent there. And then she began searching for answers. Automatically, she reached up for her glasses before reminding herself that she no longer needed then. Thanks to James. For a moment the memory of his healing touch washed over her, warm and soothing. Recalling the look in his eyes brought tears to her own, but she brushed them away.

She was still there, bending over a chunk of stone where she’d glimpsed Utanapishtim’s original name, Ziasudra, when she heard voices outside in the hall.

“Open it.”

The tone was commanding, male—and she’d heard it before. It was Scarface! She was on her feet, grabbing handfuls of clay fragments from the table and stuffing them into her pockets, the only thing she had time to do.

“The artifacts in this room are priceless,” said an other familiar voice. Frank Murray, one of the BU deans. “And, I assure you, utterly useless to you. There are only a handful of people in the entire world capable of translating—”

“I said, open the door.”

“Yes, yes, I’m trying.”

Grabbing her backpack, Lucy darted to the rear of the room, slid through that second door and closed it quietly, then belatedly realized her headband lamp was still in place. She yanked it off, moving quickly through the basement toward the loading dock in the rear, where all the workers were, unfortunately, milling about.

She could hear Scarface and the dean behind her. Scarface was shouting and getting excited. Clearly he could that see someone else had been in the room. They would be coming after her momentarily.

She picked up the pace as she climbed the ramp to the loading dock, emerging into the outdoors and quickly hid alongside a large truck. It was dark, but the workers were still there. They often put in long hours during the summer months, in order to be done by the time the place came back to full screaming life in the fall. No one saw her. And Scarface was coming, with a half-dozen underlings in tow. She had to get out of sight.

Making a quick decision, she jumped up onto the truck’s step, opened the passenger door and got in, then ducked low, scooting over until she was sitting on the floor between the seats.

There she quickly transferred all the clay fragments from her pockets into her backpack. She tucked the headlamp in there, as well, then unzipped an other compartment to retrieve her baseball cap and sunglasses.

As she did, she saw something from the corner of her eye. Folded and stacked neatly in a box beneath the seat were a pair of overalls, a pair of safety glasses and a hard hat.

Smiling as she began pulling them on over her own clothes, she thought maybe being heroic wasn’t so hard after all. Five minutes later she was climbing down from the truck and moving toward, rather than away from, the clusters of workers, all of whom were dressed just like she was.

“I want this entire area searched,” Scarface was ordering three men who trailed him. “Professor Lucy Lanfair is a fugitive, and I believe we have her cornered here. Get on it.”

Lucy blended in with the workers until she saw that the agents were questioning each of them. Every single one of them. Work had stopped, and every one in overalls was being herded into smaller groups around the truck. She found herself herded right along with them.

“All right, no one is leaving until you’ve all been questioned and cleared,” said a suit-wearing agent who looked like he would tip over in a stiff wind. “Do not try to blow this off. We’ve got men stationed at each of the campus exits. This won’t take long, so just consider it your way of helping your country. Once you’ve been cleared, you’ll be allowed to leave the premises immediately.”

He was interrupted by another man, who came out of the building with a small group behind him.

“The building’s clean, sir. No one in there.”

“Move to the next one,” the suit said, pointing. Then he looked at the workers again and pointed to one man. “You, you’re first. Come here.”

As the man moved away from the group, muttering under his breath, the others drew together, broke out packs of cigarettes and complained about government bullshit.

Lucy was caught. She knew it, and she didn’t know what to do about it. She couldn’t walk away without being questioned first, or they would notice and the hunt would be over. Hell, what was she going to do?

Then it came to her. They’d finished searching the building. They wouldn’t be likely to go back in there. So if she could just manage to get back inside, she might be safe. It would be the last place they would expect to find her. All she needed, really, was a distraction. A way to focus their attention elsewhere long enough for her to dart back inside.

And then her prayers were answered in the worst possible way.

“What in the living hell…?” someone said, and then, one by one, every head turned toward the commons, where a large copper-skinned man was striding toward them, wearing nothing but a bedsheet.

Utanapishtim. What was he doing here?

“You!” said one of the suits, pointing at Utanapishtim. “Hey, hold up there. Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

Utanapishtim’s eyes narrowed. “Where the hell I wish, hu-mun.”

“Oh, is that how it is?” The agent’s hand slid to the weapon at his side. “I’m gonna need to see some ID, pal.”

The beam came out of nowhere. The federal agent froze in place as his body seemed to vibrate, but only for an instant. Then he exploded, and bits of him flew everywhere.

“Shit,” Lucy muttered, as everyone flew into motion, diving for cover. She dove, too, racing back into the basement before anyone even looked her way. She slipped inside and pressed her back to the door behind her. Breathless, scared to death, she yanked off the safety glasses and hard hat, tossing them aside.

And then she heard gunfire and closed her eyes. God, she hated guns.

It was over soon, though, as explosion after explosion rocked the building like a series of earthquakes. She headed into her beloved basement room and nearly cried at what she saw there.

Every bin had been emptied. The containers lay scattered about the floor, tipped and toppled, their contents gone. And the men hadn’t been careful, either. There hadn’t been time. They must have simply dumped the piles of delicate hardened clay into whatever boxes or bags they were using to transport them. Crucial information would be lost forever, chipped away, and even a single line or character could change the entire meaning of a translation.

The damage would be irreparable. Not to mention the countless hours of labor that had gone into sorting and cataloging each fragment. Years of work, wasted. Gone.

Except for those few dozen pieces she’d managed to secrete in her backpack.

It was devastating.

Shaking off her grief, she moved toward the door to the hall, planning to go upstairs and try to find an exit she could use, or a place to hide.

But before she could leave, the back door was blown right off its hinges, and she spun around, pressing her back to the door.

Utanapishtim himself stood there.

Drawing a breath, trying to stop her trembling, Lucy looked him squarely in the eyes and lifted her chin. “How did you find me?”

“I…” He made a cupping motion, palm to palm. “Ab-sorb…all knowledge from small box…in your bag.”

She nodded. “My address, campus address, probably my entire playlist.” She closed her eyes, shaking her head slowly. “It never occurred to me.” And then she swallowed, cleared her throat. “If you’ve come to kill me, I have a dying wish, Great King. I wish that you would listen to my words before I die. For you have been grievously misinformed.”

“I seek not you death, Loo-see. But…I wish to hear these words.”

She nodded. “The book you found, the one you read on that small box you took from my bag…it was a book filled with as many lies as truths.”

“It say ‘The Truth.’”

“That was just what it was called. Anyone can call a book ‘The Truth.’ It’s a name. I could name my dog Inanna, but that wouldn’t make my dog a goddess, would it?” He was frowning at her, as if perplexed, and she knew she was speaking far too fast, so she tried to slow down. “The man who wrote those words hated your people. He spent his life trying to wipe the vampires from existence. But they are not the monsters he says they are.”

Utanapishtim lowered his head but kept his eyes on her. “I…create them. I…defy the Anunaki, and I have suffer…they wrath for five tousund years.”

“I know. I know, Utanapishtim, but—”

“Why the gods would punish me so…if vahmpeers was good? Was right?”

No point in telling him there were no such things as the Anunaki. Hell, she wasn’t even sure she believed that anymore herself. “I cannot know the minds of the gods, Utanapishtim. But I do know your people. I used to believe as you do, but now I know better. They’re good. And they’re yours. Your blood. Your offspring. Your children, Utanapishtim.”

“I…cannot disobey the gods. Not…again.” He shuddered as he spoke. “I will not be sended into the death that is alive no more. I want only…release.”

Then he lifted his eyes to hers. “I then join my children in afterlife. In Land of Dead. Is where they belong…. Is where I belong.”

His pain was palpable in his words. And it was terrifying to him, she knew, the thought of being returned to that state of living death. No wonder he was willing to wipe out his own rather than risk that happening.

She wished she could make him understand. “You don’t have to destroy them. I believe we can find away to free you from this curse, if you will just let me—”

“Enough!”

He barked the word, and she flinched, raising an arm to cover her face as if that would stop his deadly gaze.

He paused, and his eyes looked truly sad. “I come not for you, Loo-see. You…still hu-mun. I come for James.”

“He’s not here.”

“Will here be soon.”

“What makes you think—”

“Where else James go? Know you not, woman?

You are…his heart.”

She blinked against a sudden rush of hot moisture and averted her eyes. “You’re wrong.”

“No, he’s not.” James had silently entered from behind Utanapishtim and stood now by the back door, an ax in his hand. “He’s wrong about a lot of things, Lucy, but he’s dead on target about that.”

“James…”

She whispered his name on a choking sob, wanting to run to him but afraid to move. Did he mean it?

And did it matter, at a time like this?

“You killed innocents out there, Utanapishtim,”

James said softly. “The carnage outside is… It’s brutal.”

“It…ness-ary.” The king bowed his head slightly, one hand rising as if he was about to press it to his forehead, but he stopped himself in midmotion. “They try stop me.”

“You could have backed off, regrouped, waited for me in ambush somewhere,” James said. “Those actions would have been preferable to the annihilation of the innocent.”

“I…there was no time.”

“There’s all the time in the world. We’re immortal. You know that. But don’t you see, Utanapishtim?

You’re not thinking clearly.”

Utanapishtim’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing.

“You…question decision of you king?”

“You’re not my king, Utanapishtim. Never were.”

“Don’t antagonize him,” Lucy whispered. She was working her way around the room, trying to get to where James stood. She was edging along the wall, wanting nothing more than to be in his arms.

“Think you I not have pondered this, James of the Vahmpeers? I have thought on this. My decision has made.”

“You’ve thought on this with a sick mind, Utanapishtim! All those centuries, captive in that stone statue, it twisted your brain.—”

“Nothing twist mind of king. I am like Anunaki.”

“I know. I thought I was like a god, too, for a while. I let my ego get away from me. But I’m not a god, I’m a man. Just like you. You are a man, Utanapishtim, and now you are also a murderer of innocents. What you plan to do is genocide, and you must stop it now.”

“The gods demand—”

“I don’t give a damn what the gods demand!”

“Then die!” Utanapishtim’s eyes narrowed on James and began to glow. And in that instant Lucy launched herself as if from a rocket, diving into the path of that beam, only one thought, only one emotion, driving her: that she could not stand by and watch the man she loved blasted to bits.

The last thing she heard before the hum that tried to blow her head open was James screaming her name.