Born in Twilight (Wings in the Night #5)

Born in Twilight (Wings in the Night #5) Page 2

"Two guards dead," DPI supervisor Wes Fuller repeated, though everyone in this staff meeting already knew the body count. "Six others injured. And that bastard Jameson Bryant gone, free as a bird." He rapped the pipe, bowl down, against the glass ashtray, expelling the spent tobacco.

"Doesn't matter." Chief aide Stiles went over the checklist on his clipboard, nodding as he did. "We got everything we needed from him. Our theory was correct. Once they're transformed, the males are sterile.

Beforehand, though, while they're still human-'"

"Human my ass. They're only passing. Animals, all of them."

"Yes, well..." Stiles cleared his throat. "At any rate, before that kind is changed over, they're fertile. The belladonna antigen doesn't seem to affect the sperm count."

"That's what I was afraid of." Fuller pushed his chair away from the conference table, the casters squealing in protest of his bulk, and got to his feet. He turned his gaze to Dr. Rose Sversky, who was pushing seventy, and still the sharpest member of DPIs research team. She had snowy-white hair, cut short, to go with her pixielike frame. She ought to be wearing an apron and rocking grandbabies, not dissecting vampires.

"You have the data?" Fuller asked. "What's the breakdown?"

Rose adjusted her Coke-bottle-thick eyeglasses and cleared her throat. "Of the twelve thousand, five hundred female subjects we've tested and/or autopsied in the past two decades," she said, her voice clinical and cold, "just over three thousand still had viable egg cells in their ovaries. Ninety-eight percent of those had been transformed for less than a year. None of them for more than twenty-three months." She looked up from her notes, and moved her glasses down a notch to peer at him over the tops of them. "To break it down, Mr. Fuller, yes. It is entirely possible that a newly formed female vampire could mate with a mortal male, and produce a child."

Hilary Garner's pencil lead snapped off. The sound drew Fuller's cold eyes, and he scowled at her. "Try and keep up, Garner. We'll need these notes."

"Yes, sir." She blinked the horror from her eyes, and went to the desk for a fresh pencil. She'd only recently been promoted to this position, executive secretary to Weston Fuller. It came with a huge bonus in pay, terrific hours...and some frightening, sickening revelations as to what this organization was truly about.

She hadn't believed her friend and co-worker Tamara Dey, all those years ago, when she'd tried to warn her. She hadn't seen anything to indicate that what Tamara had said was true. The kidnappings, the torture, the murders.

Hilary paused there, staring down at her reflection in the solid silver pencil holder on Fuller's expensive desk. Caramel skin, and wide brown eyes with a few crow's feet at the corners stared back at her, and her reflection whispered, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Hurry it up, Garner. I haven't got all day."

Clearing her throat, Hilary snatched a pencil from the holder and hurried back to her seat beside Chief Fuller.

"Now then," he began, still addressing Rose Sversky, who looked far too sweet and far too old to be involved in a covert government agency. But she was involved. Up to her bushy white eyebrows. She was the world's top-and, Hilary thought, likely the world's only -forensic pathologist specializing in the examination of the remains of vampires. But Fuller was still speaking and Hilary was supposed to be paying attention.

"Suppose one of these females were to mate with a mortal who carried the antigen? What would the results be?"

Rose shrugged. "A baby, I imagine." She winked, and an uneasy chuckle went around the table.

"Yes, but what kind of baby?" Fuller looked around the room, eyeing each high-ranking agent at the conference table one by one. "Don't you see what I'm getting at here? Should these creatures find a way to reproduce, we'd be outnumbered within a few years."

"So what are you suggesting we do about it?" Every eye turned to Hilary when she blurted the question.

Hell, she wasn't supposed to have any input at all here. Just sit quietly and take notes while the big boys made their plans. Rose was the only female at the table besides Hilary, and she was only there because they couldn't get by without her.

Wes Fuller leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest and looked at her as if he were awaiting an apology. Hilary sat up a little straighter, looking him dead in the eye, and not giving him one.

The tension stretched to the breaking point, and finally he came forward, slapping his palms on the tabletop and leaning toward her. "What we're going to do about it, Miss Garner, is find out."

"F-findout...?"

"Find out what the results of such a mating would be. Research, Garner. That's what we do here." He nodded to Stiles, returning to his former comfortable, almost lounging position in his chair as he made life-and-death decisions as though he were ordering lunch. "We have the frozen samples from Jameson Bryant, and you say they're fertile?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Then he turned his attention to Whaley, the eastern regional operative coordinator. "We'll need a female, newly changed over. Preferably close by so we don't run into trouble getting her here." Whaley nodded once, sharply. "I'll put every operative in the area on alert. We'll have a subject within the week."

"Good." Fuller smiled grimly, then glanced into Hilary's eyes, making her feel dirty inside. "You have any sort of problem with this?"

She blinked, lowered her chin, said nothing.

"I hope not," Fuller told her. "Because we deal harshly with employees who can't stomach the work we do here, Miss Garner. Very harshly."

"I understand," she said, meeting his gaze once more. And she knew when she looked into those chilling eyes, that she did. She understood perfectly. If she tried to get out, tried to walk away...she would die.

Or disappear, just like pretty young Tamara had done so long ago. And no one would ever be the wiser.

Fuller dismissed them, and one by one they filed out of his office. He stopped her at the door and nodded back at the notepad she'd left on the table. "Have those notes typed up and ready for me within the hour," he barked, and then he pushed past her into the corridor with the others.

Hilary only nodded and watched him go.

"Are you feeling all right, dear?"

She brought her head up fast, and searched Rose Sversky's aging face as she gathered file folders from the table. They were alone in Fuller's office, and against her better judgment, Hilary closed the door.

"Rose...how can you be a part of something like this?"

Rose frowned, scanning a sheet before closing a folder and adding it to her stack. "Something like what?

It's research. It's necessary."

"It's more than that."

Rose looked at her then, really looked at her. She pulled her glasses lower on her nose, tilted her head back and seemed to search Hilary's face.

Hilary moved forward, as if by being closer she could reach the woman. "This place is a prison. Do you know they have prisoners in the sublevels? Locked up in cells like animals?"

"Of course I know, dear. I'm the head researcher."

She could have slapped Hilary and shocked her less. "You know?" Rose nodded. God, Hilary thought, she'd probably known all along. Hilary had found out only recently, and she'd stupidly assumed the kind-looking old woman would be as appalled and horrified by the news as she had been. "But, Rose..."

"But nothing. We're not talking genocide here. These are animals, not human beings. They feed on human beings. For heaven's sakes, it's them or us. Surely you can see that." Hilary took a backward step, the wind knocked out of her. "But...but what they want to do! A baby, for the love of Christ! And what will happen to it if they succeed?"

"Not a baby. A pup. A young animal, no different from the rest." She slipped her glasses back to their former position, and sighed. "It would be the most incredible research opportunity we've ever had." Hilary swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. This was the stuff of nightmares, and she was going to throw up. Was this sweet little old lady actually getting wistful about the chance to carve up a child? Her hands were damp with sweat and shaking, and she felt dizzy as a sense of unreality washed over her. Her knees tried to buckle. She braced a hand on the table to keep from falling down.

"Hilary," Rose began, taking a step forward, narrowing her eyes. "You do understand why this is necessary, don't you? Because, if you don't-" her face softened with a blatantly false smile and equally phony concern clouding her eyes "-I can arrange to have you taken off this case. Perhaps you weren't quite ready for this promotion. Not everyone can handle the research we do here, and DPI is quite aware of that."

Her voice had changed. Become sugary. And there was a dark suspicion behind that fake concern in her eyes.

Of course DPI is aware of it. And the ones who can't stomach the work here disappear without a trace.

Hilary swallowed hard, shook her head. "No, I think I understand it better now. You're right. It's necessary. I'm...glad we talked."

"Of course," Rose replied, and her smile became a little more genuine. "Any time you have misgivings, you can come to me. All right?"

"Thank you. I'll do that." And you'll run right back to Fuller to report everything I say. Hell, you'll probably add this little conversation to their file on me .

Still smiling, Rose hugged her stack of manila folders to her chest and left the office. Hilary leaned back against the door, and tried to quell the nausea. She'd said too much, blurted her thoughts without thinking first. Let herself see Rose Sversky as a stereotype. A sweet old lady. Somebody's grandma. Mrs. Santa Claus. Dammit, she was nuts to have opened this can of worms with that woman. Rose had been aware of the atrocities DPI was sponsoring for years. Years! Hell, she was likely a part of them!

And what would she do now? Had Hilary saved herself in time, or had she given herself away completely? And what if she had?

She was scared. Jesus, she was scared.

Jameson and the others stayed a few days in Rhiannon'sManhattan penthouse. Heavy black draperies lined every window, with dark shades beneath them. And there wasn't a coffin in the place. Everyone slept in beds, by Rhiannon's order. She liked the good life, Rhiannon did. Satin sheets on every bunk in the suite.

Jameson had to smile at her antics. She certainly kept the conservative and staid Roland hopping.

Roland. How many times had he saved Jameson's life now? Three? Four? There was the time DPI agent Curt Rogers had kidnapped Jameson when he was-what, twelve? That prick had left him tied up in a condemned building in the heart of winter. All just a ploy to get to Tamara, of course. If Roland hadn't found him after he'd fallen down those stairs, though...

And then, later, after his mother died, that bastard Lucien had taken him, offered to trade his life for the dark gift. Once again, his friends had stepped in to save him. Rhiannon had nearly died that time in the effort.

And now, here they were again. Pulling him from the jaws of death in the nick of time. So certain that just because he was still mortal, he couldn't take care of himself.

Hell, he was half vampire already. He lived like one. Slept days, and worked nights. It had come naturally to him, after spending so much time in their company. Even when Roland had found Jameson's natural father for him, and sent him to live with the man inCalifornia , he'd stuck to his nocturnal ways. .

Someday, he supposed, he'd ask one of them to change him over. Someday. Not yet, though. He still had a few mortal years left, and he'd like to see a lot more sunrises before he said goodbye to them forever. He liked a good steak, a glass of wine, and he wasn't ready to give it all up for a strictly liquid diet.

"You guys shouldn't hang out in the city for very long," he warned the others, as he paced the floor that night. Their third night here. "You know the place is practically lousy with those DPI bastards." Rhiannon smiled. "I wish I would run into one of them." She licked her lips, earning her a scowl from Roland. It didn't faze her. She reached down and stroked a path over Pandora's head, and the cat batted playfully at her hand.

"You're right, Jamey," Tamara said softly, and she went to the nearest window to part the draperies and snap the shade so it rolled up on itself. Then she stared out at the glittering skyline. "But I don't want to leave until you do. I know you're still furious. And I know you want revenge." He shrugged. "That's my problem. I'm not going to keep telling you, I don't want you involved in my troubles, Tam. You're going to get yourself killed one of these times, sticking your nose in where-'"

"I had a dream."

Jameson stopped talking when she turned slowly, pinning him to the spot with her huge, black eyes.

"Jamey, I had a dream... about you."

Eric lifted one brow at his wife's statement, setting aside the book he'd been reading. A new one on quantum physics. "This is the first I've heard of it."

"I didn't say anything the first time...but...I had it again, today." She swung her gaze to Jameson's, shaking her head sadly. "It wasn't visual. Just a feeling. A horrible feeling that something's going to happen to you, Jamey. Right here, in this city. So I'm not leaving. Not until you do." Jameson lowered his head, seeing no sense in arguing with Tam. She'd been like a sister to him, even when she was mortal. Protective even then.

"Well now," Rhiannon purred, slinking across the room to stand beside Tamara with as much grace as that cat of hers. "I agree. We remain. If anyone touches Jameson, we..." She smiled that half smile that had been giving him wet dreams since the first day he'd laid eyes on her. "Take action," she finished.

Jameson grated his teeth. It didn't matter that he was taller than Roland, or that his muscles were more firmly developed from hours in the gym than Eric's had ever been. It didn't matter that he'd found a gray hair amid the jet-black ones last week, or that he'd celebrated his thirtieth birthday the month before that.

They'd always see him as a child in need of their protection. Always.

He turned, stalked to the apartment door, picking up his coat on the way. "I'm going for a walk." Then he looked back at them, his hand still on the doorknob. "And if any of you follow me, I swear to Christ, I'll never come back."

"Jamey!" Tamara rushed forward, grabbed his arm as if to stop him.

"Jameson," he told her gently. "Look at me, Tamara. No, I mean really look at me. I'm not Jamey anymore." She did, her I ebony eyes racing over his face, tearing up as she nodded. He ran his hand through her dark curls, and then lowered his head to kiss I her cheek. "Please understand, Tam. I just need some space, okay?"

Her lower lip quivering, she nodded. "Be careful," she whispered.

"I'm always careful."

He turned and left the apartment.

He walked, alone and after dark, completely unafraid. Aside from his occasional run-ins with DPI, few people ever wanted to mess with Jameson once they'd looked him in the eye. He supposed the old anger showed there. And now, probably more than ever. Now that he'd been used, humiliated, as an adult this time, at their bloody hands. Oh, he knew about them. The way they'd had Tamara's parents killed just so they could get their hands on her. Used her, from the time she was a little girl, as bait, knowing she had the antigen, and knowing, too, that sooner or later one of the undead would show up to check in on her.

And when the one appointed to be her mortal guardian, kindly old Daniel St. Claire, had changed his mind, when he'd decided he couldn't go through with the plot to use the child he'd raised as his own, they'd had him killed as well.

They were ruthless, bloodthirsty animals. They hunted the undead like game, and when they found them, their experimentation techniques were utterly free of any hint of conscience.

The bastards.

Jameson wanted to know why they'd taken him this time. What kind of information they were seeking.

Why they'd taken the particular specimens from his body that they had, and what they intended to do next.

He wanted to know. But how could he find out? That was what he needed to think about, and he needed to think about it alone. Outside, with the fresh, snapping winter air keeping him sharp, and without all those concerned, protective eyes watching over him.

He walked fast, enjoying the exertion and the chill. And he planned. Well, he supposed he might break into DPI headquarters and go through their files. Maybe tap into their computers and see if any information could be found there. Or perhaps he could just grab one of them. That Nazi-like doctor, Rose Sversky, for example, or perhaps Fuller's lapdog, Stiles. He could torture one of them into talking.

Maybe even Fuller himself. Jameson smiled as he thought about the pain he'd like to inflict on that bastard, who'd done likewise to so many, for so long.

Whatever he decided, he couldn't do anything until he convinced Eric, Tamara, Roland and Rhiannon to get the hell out of here and leave him alone. If they stayed they'd get themselves tangled up in whatever mess he ended up creating, just as they always did, and he didn't want that. He didn't want his friends-family, really-put at risk because of his need to vent this old, ever-growing anger. His passion for meting out some long-overdue justice. He couldn't allow them near this. It was going to be messy.

So he supposed he'd have to wait, and...

Jameson came to a stop in the street, and stood silently, head cocked slightly to one side as the cold wind ruffled his hair and stung his cheeks. He'd heard something...something so faint no one else passing on the street seemed to notice. Or if they did, they didn't seem to care. He had to strain to catch it again, with the slow-moving traffic, and blasting horns, and hissing air brakes. Less noisy now than during the day, but not by a hell of a lot.

A second ticked by, then two. And then he caught it again. The sound was that of moaning. Agonized, pain-filled moaning.

And the voice was that of a vampire.

A little shiver crept up the back of Jameson's neck as he pinpointed the source of the sound. An abandoned building, several yards away from him. Crumbling brick and fingers of broken, dirty glass.

Snow on the old stone dormers. Gargoyles lining the top, though little remained of those gruesome guardians now. You couldn't even make out their features aside from their snarling mouths, and angel's wings, dusted now in snow.

She was in there.

How he knew that-how he could even hear the sound of her voice-Jameson didn't know. It wasn't audible. Not to mortal I ears, anyway. But that was just it. His were mortal ears. So why was he hearing her, sensing her there? Why could he feel her pain?

Jameson Bryant was not a fool. He'd encountered other preternatural beings before, those who were strangers to him. And he always avoided them. True enough, it went against their nature to harm one of their own-one of theChosen . Those rare mortals with the belladonna antigen coursing through their veins. They always knew that antigen. Scented it or sensed it or something. And most of the undead tended to protect and watch over those mortals with the antigen. Dark guardians. Dark angels. His mouth twisted in a smile at the irony of that.

But there were exceptions to every rule. And there were monsters in every race and every species. He did not make a habit of walking up to strange vampires and extending a hand.

But this time was different. He was compelled, drawn by some force he neither recognized nor understood. She might be mad. She might be a killer. She might turn on him. But he had no choice but to climb over the graying boards nailed in the shape of a cross in the doorway of the ruined building, and make his way through the rubble, to where she was.

And when he finally saw her, his heart tripped over itself.

She sat, curled in the fetal position in a corner. Her black dress-or robe or whatever it was-was torn and tattered and filthy. As was her tangled ebony hair, long and dirty and covering her face. She was startlingly white. So very white she nearly glowed in the darkness like a wraith. And thin. Emaciated, even. Her hands...Jesus, he could see the bones in those chalk-white hands.

He took another step toward her, and her head came up fast, eyes wide and fear-filled. And as she stared at him, the clouds skittered away from the moon, allowing its light to spill through the broken glass, and bathe her face and her eyes in that ethereal glow. She was painfully thin, but even then, she was beautiful. The shape of her face, like a sculpture in the moonlight. High, sharp cheekbones, and a delicate jawline. Full lips, parted slightly, and a long slender neck that held him motionless as he studied it. Then she moved her head just slightly, and the light fell on her eyes, and he caught his breath. They were violet.

Brilliant, vivid violet. So bright was their color that he'd have suspected it to be false if he didn't know better. Huge, luminous eyes that shone with color. Her thinness, he suspected, made those haunting eyes seem even larger than they were. And no doubt it was that same condition, and those slight hollows it caused in her cheeks, that made her bone structure seem like that of a goddess. Or an angel.

She wasn't an angel, though. She was a vampiress, quite possibly a dangerous one. He knew that.

And he knew a few other things, as well.

He knew this vampiress was on the brink of starvation. He knew she might very well be beyond the brink of madness. He knew he should leave.

And he knew, damned good and well, that he wasn't going to.