Born in Twilight (Wings in the Night #5)

Born in Twilight (Wings in the Night #5) Page 4

They took me to a large building, down in an elevator to a sterile white room, with a bed, and a chair, and little else. I was led inside, full of questions. How could they help me? What was this experimental cure that could return me to humanity?

I turned to ask my questions, only to see a solid steel door closing on me. No window in that door, and locks aplenty. I heard the locks turning, and a feeling of dread welled up inside me. I went to the door, tried to push against it, but it didn't give at all. And it should have. It should have. I was strong, stronger than any locks they could make. I knew that.

Ah, but that man, the one who'd brought me here. He'd injected me with something. A drug, he said, to prepare my body for the shock of becoming mortal again. And it had to be that that had taken away my strength.

And now I was here, locked in this room. A prisoner, for all practical purposes. And I recalled the voice of my beautiful victim telling me not to trust them. Not to go with that stranger.

God, had I made a terrible mistake?

I paced the room throughout that first night, and it seemed endless. And then finally the door opened, and a kindly, white-haired woman of tiny stature smiled at me.

"Hello," she said. "My name is Dr. Rose Sversky. I'll be taking care of you while you're here." Taking care of me. This sweet, harmless-looking old woman. I nearly sagged in relief. I hadn't made a mistake after all. They would truly help me here.

"Why am I locked in like this?" I asked her. "It frightens me."

"Oh, dear, they really should have explained." Dr. Rose came in, closing the door behind her. "There are others here, others like you. People we're only trying to help." She shook her head, clicking her tongue.

"But some of them...well, they can be quite monstrous, you know. They'd attack anyone, even one of their own kind."

I believed that readily. I'd fallen victim to one of them, and I had no doubt that they were all just as beastly. Just as horrible as I had started to become now that I was one of them.

"The locks are to keep them out, dear, not to keep you in. For your own protection, honestly. Someone should have told you."

I sighed hard, my relief palpable.

"Now, if you'll just hop up onto the table," she said, smiling her reassurance, "I can get started making you human again."

I obeyed hurriedly. The woman eyed my dirty habit, shook her head, and pulled a hypodermic from her pocket.

"How long will I have to be here?" I asked.

"Well, it might be weeks, to be honest. The process involves several steps, you know. But you needn't worry. We'll take better care of you than your own mother would. You'll see." The needle's tip sank into my arm, and in a few seconds, my world became dark and murky. I drifted into unconsciousness.

When I woke, I wore a white hospital gown. I had been bathed, and my hair had been washed and brushed. I felt oddly violated. I wondered what sort of procedure the kindly old doctor had performed on me, but there was no way of knowing.

Eventually, my door was opened once more, and a strong young man entered, handed me a glass of scarlet liquid and left without a word. Not a word. As if I were an inanimate object or a pet to be fed. I drank the cold stale sustenance he'd provided, but it lacked the invigorating warmth of blood drawn from the living. That warmth I still recalled suffusing my body as I fed at the throat of that beautiful man who'd offered to help me.

But I didn't want that warmth. I didn't want to prey on the innocent. I wanted to be mortal again, to have my old life back. And so I drank, and I prayed it would not be long I'd have to remain in this place.

Hilary Garner listened to Rose Sversky's report, and tried to keep a semblance of clinical detachment on her face. She wasn't certain she succeeded. But she tried.

"We've successfully harvested and fertilized a single egg from the subject. Only one. The implantation will have to go off without a hitch, and if it doesn't take, I'm not certain we'll get another shot. We may have to have another subject or two before we achieve success." Fuller nodded, his narrow-eyed gaze slipping to Hilary's face every so often, as if he were watching for something. A slip. She kept her expressionless mask firmly in place. She'd show this man nothing. There was nothing she could do, anyway.

"Schedule the implantation for tonight," he said. "Let's get this experiment under way. How is the subject?"

Rose smiled her grandmotherly smile. "Irony always amazes me, Mr. Fuller, but this time it's overwhelmed me. The subject is a virgin."

Fuller's brows rose high. "You're kidding me."

"No. Other than that odd state of affairs, she remains completely cooperative. She still believes she's going to become mortal again. She won't give us any trouble."

"Don't get too complacent, Sversky," Fuller said. "She'll give us plenty of trouble once she realizes she's pregnant. And she'll have to realize it, sooner or later."

"Yes, well, she will if the implantation is successful."

Fuller nodded. "Best prepare one of the maximum-security cells for her. Once she figures it out, she'll fight us every step of the way." He shook his head. "A freaking virgin birth. Wasn't she some kind of nun before she was changed over?"

"Something like that," Sversky said with a chuckle. "Will wonders never cease?" Fuller replied. He leaned back in his chair and began filling his pipe.

I was slowly going insane. Stir-crazy would be the closest term. I had no books. No television. No radio. I was allowed to bathe nightly. And my liquid meals were brought to me by soft-spoken, even respectful individuals dressed in white. From glasses, not warm bodies, I fed. And the sustenance was diluted. Thin and cold, and I began to suspect, laced with some sort of tranquilizer. Since coming here, I'd never once felt that odd surge of vampiric strength that I'd felt before.

I should have known, I suppose. I should have seen the signs. The heavily veiled disgust in the eyes of those caregivers. The glances they exchanged. When I objected to any of the conditions I lived under, I was told that they'd never be able to help me get back to being mortal again, unless I cooperated with them. So I did.

And oh, that was so foolish! So incredibly foolish.

I had no idea why they would want to do what they did to me. No clue. Not in my wildest imaginings could I concoct a reason. But it soon became apparent.

Months had passed before I understood what was happening. Truly understood it. My belly began to swell, and more than that. I could sense a life force within me. I could feel it there. A separate entity.

Living, growing, inside me. I was, I realized, stunned, with child.

And as that knowledge came to me, I pounded on my cell door, screaming and kicking at it. But no one came to tell me why they'd done this to me. No one came near.

I sank to the floor only when I sensed daylight painting the earth, slowly stealing my consciousness. And this time, when I woke, I was in a far different place.

I was sealed in a dark, coffinlike box. Panic took a firm hold on me, and I beat against the lid with my fists, screaming until I was hoarse.

At last, the cover was lifted. I flew from my prison, only to be gripped by three strong men. I kicked and shouted. I asked them pleaded with them to tell me why they'd done this, what their intentions were. But to no avail. I was injected with the familiar drug, returned to the pathetically weak state I spent all my waking hours in, and then they let me go. I slumped to the floor, sitting up, eyelids heavy, and warily examined the room around me.

The sterile white walls were gone now. I was in a dungeonlike cell, with barely any light. One of the men pulled me to my feet, and ushered me close to the rear wall, while another clamped shackles around my wrists, and then my ankles. I was chained, chained to the cold stone wall at my back.

A glass of the detestable liquid was pressed into my hand. The chain was long enough to enable me to drink. And yet I did not. I stared at the glass, and shook my head. "No," I told them, lifting my chin in defiance. "I won't drink. I'd rather die than go on living in this prison! Let me go. I demand you let me go!"

One of the men chuckled, and shook his head. "If you don't feed, you'll lose your baby. You don't want to starve your own baby, do you?"

I swallowed hard, tears flooding my eyes so that the men swam before me. I couldn't do that, couldn't starve my own child, and they knew it. They knew it.

Oh, God, what had I done? What had I done to deserve this particular hell? Only then did I fully understand what a grave mistake I had made. Willingly, even eagerly, I had made myself their prisoner.

Their guinea pig. I could scarcely believe it was true. They saw me as a creature. A laboratory rat, and I was, from then on, treated as such.

I drank, because I had little choice, and so I lived. Lived on their drugged liquid, kept too weak to break my chains or fight my captors. Each night I remained chained to the cell walls. But the days were far worse. For each dawn, as soon as the day sleep overtook me, my vile captors took me down from my wall and sealed me inside that coffinlike box. More often than not, dusk would fall, and I would awaken still trapped in that tiny cement sarcophagus. I'd claw and kick and cry, and I'd hear them laughing as they passed me by, not letting me out until they were good and ready. It seemed they enjoyed my panic.

They no longer tried to conceal the disgust in their eyes. I was treated as an animal. For the sake of the child I carried, they continued to provide me with sustenance, and warmth, and sanitary conditions. For the sake of the child. I knew that. And I knew, too, with a growing sense of terror, that what became of my child once I'd given birth, was completely beyond my control.

And I knew something else in those long months of my captivity. Those long months of a loneliness more intense than anything I'd ever known. As the child grew in my womb, as I felt it there, living and even moving eventually, I spoke to it. Wrapped my arms around my swollen belly and cradled it. I even sang to it, in a voice that surprised me with its preternatural range and purity. I'd always loved to sing, but I'd never found such joy in doing so with my flawed, mortal voice. Now I thought I must sound like the very angels. And as the time passed, I came to realize that I loved the baby I carried. She-and for some reason, I was certain, even then, that she was female-she was the only living soul I spoke to in all that time. She was a part of me, my very heart. And I loved her with everything in me. Never in my life had I contemplated motherhood. I'd never imagined that I would have a child. But now, I could not imagine not having one. This one, whom they would try to take from me as surely as the sun would rise each morning.

They would try to take her.

And I would die before I would allow that to happen.

Every once in a while, Hilary slipped down to the maximum-security sublevels, and checked in on that wide-eyed young woman they held there. And once, very late in the experiment, she heard something that made her heart trip to a stop in her chest. Singing. The purest, most angelic singing she'd ever heard in her life.

She crept closer to the cell, and peered through the mesh-lined safety glass. And she saw her. Pale and thin, except for her protruding belly. Her name was Angelica, though to DPI she was called by a number.

Her hair shone like black satin, long and lustrous, and she had huge violet eyes. Their color no less than stunning, even through the. tears that spilled slowly from their purplish depths.

She sat on the floor of her cell, chains dangling from her arms and pooled around her legs. She hugged her bulging belly, and rocked slowly back and forth, and she sang "Amazing Grace," so beautifully that it brought tears to Hilary's eyes.

And then she stopped singing all at once, and lifted her head. She stared right into Hilary's eyes from beyond that glass. And Hilary was unable to look away. She was so sad, so frightened and so utterly alone. It was horrible what this organization was doing to her. Horrible.

And if I try to help, she thought, they'll kill me. They'll kill me. I'll disappear, just like Tamara .

But the story went that Tamara hadn't disappeared. According to the DPI grapevine, all those years ago she'd become one of them. A vampire, like the ones she'd been trying to help. Could it be true? Could Tamara be out there somewhere?

She shook that thought away and looked back at the woman in the cell. But the plea was still there, in those violet eyes. And Hilary knew that she had to help. She had to try. She had to.

She closed her eyes, and turned away. And the singing began again, filling the entire sublevel with beauty. And as she passed other cells where other captives languished in despair, she saw them listening.

Saw them closing their eyes and drinking in the beauty of that song.

Hilary ran from the cell block to the elevators, eager to shut out that sad, sad voice. But even after the doors slid closed, she kept hearing it. Ringing in her mind. And she saw those beautiful eyes, imploring her to act.

It was difficult walking into Fuller's office for the staff meeting that night. Harder than ever to keep her mask in place. But she had to. She made a valiant effort, too, she thought.

Until Rose Sversky's dire predictions filled the room, at least. "We can't take it C-section," she said.

"They bleed like hemophiliacs. The mother would probably bleed out before we could get the child, and then we'd lose them both."

"Then we go natural," Fuller said, tamping more smelly tobacco into that rank pipe of his as Hilary took rapid notes.

Stiles cleared his throat. "Sir, you know that kind feels pain as if it were magnified a thousand times."

"Like I give a damn," Fuller said.

Rose's eyes met Stiles's. Even the two of them, monsters though they were, were not quite as heartless as Fuller. They saw the undead as animals, yes. But even animals didn't deserve unnecessary agony.

"She'll need to be tranquilized," Rose said. "With her preternatural strength, if she pushes, she could crush the child. We'll give her the drug, a far higher dosage than the daily one. Enough to render her semiconscious before we induce labor."

"And what happens to the baby?" Hilary whispered.

Again they all looked at her, but they were over being surprised at her ever-increasing interruptions.

"The baby will be our most prized research subject," Fuller explained. "Ms. Garner, this is a first. A one of a kind. Will it be born a vampire, or a mortal, or some mutant cross between the two? We're going to learn more from this creature than...Ms. Garner?"

It showed in her face. That sick feeling that made her think she'd better get out of here fast before she lost control and broke into tears in front of all of them. She schooled her features, stood up slowly. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to excuse me for a minute." She turned toward the door.

"Stomach bug, Ms. Garner?" Fuller's voice was full of speculation, and the look in his eyes was deadly as she glanced back at him.

"Yes," she told him. "The flu, I think."

"It had better be."

It was a haze of pain and horror and fear. The first drug they gave me left me nearly paralyzed. And the second one brought on the pain. I couldn't think. I couldn't see the walls I passed as they wheeled me along, strapped to a stretcher, into an elevator and up. They took me to a room with masked, white-coated people and machines and equipment of all kinds. And those masked demons surrounded me, staring down, snapping on surgical gloves.

They spoke, but I didn't know what they were saying, so dazed was I by the pain. I hurt, I only knew that. I thought my body would tear itself in half, and I screamed. I know I screamed.

And those white coats all around me, eyes eager with excitement. There was only one, the brown-skinned woman with the big doe's eyes, who might be different. I'd seen her before, the woman with the kind brown eyes. The kindest brown eyes I thought I had ever seen. She looked as horrified from behind her surgical mask as I felt.

Oh, and I was horrified, beyond all thought. Horrified, because I could barely move, could barely think.

And all I could feel was pain. And I knew I was helpless to fight them. Helpless to protect my child.

Utterly...helpless.

She stood beside my head, the one with the kindness in her eyes. She stroked my face, not speaking, but I could see the pity in her eyes when they met mine. And then there was relief, so swift and sudden I nearly floated off the table with it. Doe Eyes turned her head, looking down at the men and woman who stood at the foot of the table on which I lay. I followed that gaze, looking where she did. And I saw my child. The woman I'd thought of as a kindly old grandmother held her-a pink, wrinkled blur in her arms.

A blur that squirmed and kicked and had jet-black hair stuck to her head.

And then that pretty one leaned close to me and whispered, "A girl. And she looks healthy." I moved my lips, lifted my hands toward my child, my daughter. I tried to beg. "Please..." And those doe eyes filled with tears. They met mine. Held mine. "Please," I whispered. "Help me...help...her!"

She looked at me, then at my baby as they carried her from the room, out of my sight. All of them, leaving me lying there. And I watched them go, as great heaving sobs that hurt as much as the birth had, tore through my body. I tried to sit up, tried with everything in me to tear free of the straps that held me down. But the drug made my efforts into a joke. A sideshow, as I cried in agony and they took my child out of my sight.

And then that beautiful, dark-skinned woman who seemed different from the others touched my face. I turned to look up at her, and her eyes, with tears swimming in and nearly spilling from them, met mine again.

"Help her," I whispered.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, she nodded.

Then she left me to the orderlies, who arrived to clean me up and return me to my cell, I was left wondering whether I had imagined that nod, the assurance in those eyes. I prayed I hadn't.

The classified ad read:

Tamara, remember me? Eighteen years ago. You had the chicken, and I had the seafood. We both had the wine. A little too much. And the cheesecake was more than we could resist. All that cholesterol. It could cost me my life. Call me. 374-555-1092.

No one would have thought it anything unusual. But Tamara did. Eric paced, looking worried.

"Where did you get this?" Tamara asked, looking up at him from where she sat in the oversize house they owned just outside San Diego. Jamey had returned to get his affairs in order. Sold the bar he'd owned, traded in his car, bought another under an assumed name. He was making arrangements to hide his money as well. DPI must not be able to track him. He had to live the way the rest of them did now. In hiding.

"A vampire by the name of Cuyler saw it, recognized the name, tracked us down and sent it to us. She thought it might be meant for you. Do you think she was right?" Tamara nodded slowly. "Of course she was right. This is from Hilary Garner. We worked together at DPI. I remember that night, we went out together. I went home alone, and had a flat. That was the night I was almost-"

"I'd rather not be reminded of what nearly happened to you that night," Eric said. He moved forward, stroking one hand through her hair. "This could be a trap, Tamara. Hilary still works for DPI." She shook her head hard. "No. Hilary wouldn't do something like that. And look at this last line." Tamara held up the paper and pointed. "'It could cost me my life.' She makes it sound as if she's referring to the cheesecake, but she's not. It's there to let me know this is urgent." She looked into Eric's eyes. "I have to call her, darling. I have to."

He lowered his head, and she was glad that for once he didn't argue. "I was afraid you were going to say something like that." She held his gaze until she saw him conceding. He sighed hard, and nodded. "I'll rig something up, just in case. They won't be able to trace the call." She smiled, and then kissed him.

Since his change, Jameson had been learning. Testing his strength and energy. Honing his mental skills.

And he was decidedly happy with his progress. He could run nearly as fast as Eric. Climb and leap and jump as well as Roland. He could speak to any of them without uttering a sound. That was probably the most surprising aspect of his new nature. And the hardest to get used to. He could read their thoughts now just as easily as they'd always been able to read his. Unless they were guarding them. He'd become adept at erecting a mental shield around his mind, one that could bar entry to any vampire.

He'd expected to miss eating a good meal, but oddly enough, he didn't. His other senses were so finely honed, so much sharper and more acute than before, that he took sensual pleasure in everything. Sounds and sights, smells and feelings bombarded him constantly. The tastes he'd once enjoyed were easily replaced. Easily forgotten.

He did regret that he'd never have the chance to fulfill his dream of a "normal" mortal life. A life with a family, a wife, children perhaps. But then, that had never really been a possibility anyway. He'd always known that those rare individuals who carried the belladonna antigen had abbreviated life spans. Few ever lived beyond the age of thirty. Jameson was thirty now, and while he hadn't experienced the onset of any of the usual symptoms, it probably wouldn't have been much longer before he had. So his initial anger at his dearest friends was long since reduced to cold ashes.

The fury he felt for the woman who'd attacked him, though-that remained red-hot. Coals of that anger glowed in his soul, and it would take only a bit of stirring to bring them back to blazing rage again.

He'd been attacked, fed upon without his consent, made to feel helpless and nearly killed. Oh, how he'd like to run into that raggedy vampiress again. He was strong now, stronger than she would ever be, he was certain, since he'd been infused with the blood of the truly ancient. Rhiannon in particular. Yes, he'd like to see that tangled and tattered woman try to attack him again. He'd toss her away like a rag doll.

Snap her like a matchstick. She would learn.

Of course, that fury would probably never be vented. She was likely long dead by now. Vampires, Jameson knew all too well, didn't tend to last long in captivity. Particularly when their captors saw them as useless once the experiments were done. Easier to simply let them die in an agony of slow starvation, or just tranquilize them with that drug they'd developed, and stake them out in the burning rays of the sun.

Disposable experiments.

Somehow, it gave Jameson no pleasure at all to think of that bone-thin and chalk-white vampiress dying in such a way. No pleasure at all.

Above all the lessons he'd been taught by his friends was that he mustn't take blood from the living. The bloodlust could become overwhelming, and a vampire could easily lose himself in the act of assuaging his passionate thirst. Well, he'd witnessed that firsthand, hadn't he? And since he had no desire to kill anyone-anyone in San Diego, at least-he took his blood as the others did. From the stores they kept, robbed from blood banks and hospitals.

"Jamey, I need to talk to you."

He turned, saw Tamara entering his room in one of the many houses they all kept around the country, this one in San Diego. He really wasn't certain why they were still here. His affairs were in order. He had plenty of money and a good cover to keep him invisible from DPI's prying eyes. His lessons were pretty much complete as well. They could go wherever they wanted. He supposed they hadn't moved on yet because they simply hadn't felt the urge to do so.

Tamara still hadn't stopped calling him Jamey, and he'd all but given up hope that she ever would.

He frowned as he met her eyes, and a little trill of alarm rushed through him, because she looked...very upset. "What is it, Tam?" She approached him, gnawing her lower lip, but then stopped halfway, and gripped the back of an armchair as if for support. And this alarmed him even more. "My God, what's wrong?"

"Jamey-Lord, but I don't know how to tell you this..."

He went to her, gripping her shoulders and easing her trembling body into the chair she'd been clinging to. "Has something happened to Eric? Or Roland? Is Rhiannon all-"

"Everyone is fine, Jamey. But you...you won't be." She tipped her head up, her eyes probing his. "If you fly out of here in a blind rage, Jamey, you'll only end up getting yourself killed, and that won't help the situation. This is...it's horrible. If it's even true. If it is, we have to take action. But with thought, and planning, and extreme caution. I can't stress that enough." He narrowed his eyes and stared at her. "I don't have a clue what you're talking about, Tam." She licked her lips, closed her eyes for a long moment, then opened them again. "When DPI held you..."

As her words trailed off, Jameson snapped to attention. "When DPI held me?" he prompted. "Go on, Tam, get to the point."

Tamara cleared her throat, lifted her delicate chin, looked him in the eye. "You said they took...samples."

He averted his eyes. But Tamara's small hand came to his shoulder, and her steady gaze drew his back like a magnet. "I need to know...what kind."

"That's not something I'm going to discuss," he said. "Not even with you."

"Forgive me," she whispered. Then cleared her throat. "Did they take your semen, Jamey?"

"Tamara, for Christ's sake!" He turned away, pulling free of her gentle grip and pacing the floor.

"I must know."

He only stopped when he reached the window. He shoved the black chintz draperies apart, braced his hands on the wide sill, and stared out into the murky gray night. The clawlike fingers of storm clouds reached past the moon, breaking its light into thin, jagged portions. And the stars were invisible.

"Why?" Jameson whispered. "For the love of God, Tamara, why would you ask me something like that?"

"Because I've been told something too horrible to believe," she told him. She didn't cross the room, didn't come to put her hands on his shoulders as he'd half expected her to do. Instead she remained sitting in the chair nearest the fireplace. And when he turned to face her he saw her staring into the dancing flames. He saw the teardrops rolling slowly down her cheeks, reflecting the light of the fire.

"Tell me," he said.

She nodded once. "You remember Hilary? My friend from so long ago?" Jameson tilted his head, searching his memory. "She worked for DPI," he said at last.

"So did I."

"That's different, Tara."

"Maybe not," she told him. "Maybe it's not so different at all. She drew her black eyes from the firelight, and turned her gaze to him again. "She told me they had taken your semen, Jameson. She told me they'd frozen it. She said their research had shown that some female vampires-very young ones-still had functioning ovaries."

Jameson felt his eyes narrow as he stepped away from the window, closer to Tamara. "What in hell are you saying?"

"The men-once they're brought over, they seem to be quite sterile. But you know DPI and their unending quest for knowledge about our kind. You know them, Jamey. They wanted to know what would happen if a female vampire were to have a child. And since they couldn't mate her with a male vampire, they decided that one of the Chosen would be the next best choice." Jameson stood in front of her now, between her and the hearth's protective screen. "Are you telling me they intend to implant a woman with my seed?"

More tears. She bit her lower lip, then tipped her head back, staring up at the ceiling. "No, my love. I'm telling you they've already done it."

"Already..."

Tamara's head came level again, and she got to her feet. Her hands closed on Jameson's shoulders, and her grip was firm. "Last week a vampiress being held in that place gave birth to a child, Jameson. Your child."

"No!" He pulled free of her, spun away. He slammed his fists down on the mantel, and the clock and other bric-a-brac lining it flew into the air and smashed to the floor. "No, it's not possible."

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "It's killing me to tell you this, Jamey, but Hilary says it's true. They...they have your child."

"I'll kill those bastards," Jameson shouted. "I'll kill every last one of them, I swear!" He stalked across the room, and yanked the door open, only to be met by a solid wall of resistance.

Roland, Eric and Rhiannon stood there, blocking his path. Jameson shoved his way past them all, but Roland gripped his arms and fought to keep him from leaving. "Jameson, please! Just listen-'"

"No. I'm through listening. I'm through letting you all treat me like a child. Jesus, Roland, don't you realize what's happening? A child- my child, Roland, if what Tamara says is true-is being used as a research subject by those monsters." He swung his gaze around to Rhiannon's. "You were their prisoner once," he told her. "You know...you know better than anyone, Rhiannon, what they're capable of. I have to get my child out of there. I can't wait."

"Of course I know that," Rhiannon told him. "And I agree fully that the animals must pay, Jameson, though these others will no doubt argue that point. We only want you to be aware, before you go, of some vital considerations." She stopped there, turning to Eric, nodding at him to go on.

Jameson stopped struggling and met Eric's eyes. "First, just keep in mind that we only have Hilary Garner's word that this is your child," Eric said. "And-"

"Do you really think that matters? No child deserves to be used the way they will use him...or her..." He turned to Tamara, whose tears flowed unchecked now. "Him, Tamara? Or her?" And his voice broke as he asked the question.

"Her," she whispered. "A girl."

"A daughter. Jesus Christ, I have a daughter." He felt dizzy, weak, ill.

"Maybe," Eric said. "And we'd mount a rescue attempt no matter whose child it turned out to be. But Jameson, there's one more thing you need to be aware of before we move in." Eric licked his lips.

Closed his eyes very briefly. "You have to prepare yourself, my friend. We don't know what sort of child we'll find. Whether she'll be mortal or...or-"

"Or vampire?" Jameson moved closer to Eric, searching his face. "My God, Eric, you don't think...no.

No, not a newborn vampire. That's too horrible for words. A child who lives on blood? A child who can never grow older?" Jameson closed his eyes, then popped them open again and turned to Tamara. "This Hilary, she saw the baby?"

"Only for a moment. She just glimpsed her, and says all she could tell for sure was that she was...she was beautiful. Dark curls. Like yours, Jamey." Her beautiful face fell then, into her delicate hands, and Tamara wept. Her shoulders shaking with it. Eric went to her, took her into his arms.

Jameson stepped away from them, looking back at them all. "You love me," he said, his voice coarse. "I know you all love me. But do you trust me?"

"Of course we trust you, Jameson," Roland said quickly. But Rhiannon was looking at him with wariness in her eyes. As if she knew full well what was coming next.

"I've never asked anything of you. I'm asking you now, and this means more to me than anything ever has. If you care for me as you say you do, then let me go after my daughter alone." Tam's head came up sharply, eyes red and puffy and wet. "No!"

"This is my child," he went on. "My responsibility. For once, treat me as an equal. I am, you know. I'm your equal now. There's no more reason for all this protectiveness. None at all. And if you won't let me do this, if you won't trust me to save the life of my own child, then..." He lowered his head, shook it slowly.

"Then," Rhiannon said softly, "our relationship with this young man is going to be severely damaged." Jameson met Rhiannon's eyes and nodded. "Yes. That's it exactly." Then he looked at the rest of them, each in turn. "Trust me enough to know I'll be wise, and cautious, and that I won't satisfy this rage that's burning inside me at the risk of my child's life." And then he went to Tamara, and he stroked her hair away from her face. "I want you to wait for me. If I need you, I'll call to you, I promise you that."

"Swear it, Jamey," Tamara whispered. "Swear to me you'll call us, if you're hurt or if you're taken. Or if things look too dangerous. Swear it to me, and I'll believe you."

"I swear, Tam." He stared down into her eyes. "You're more to me than a sister could be. Closer to me than my own soul, sometimes. You'd know if I were lying to you. I'll call if I need help. My pride won't get in the way of saving that child. I need to do this alone, Tamara. I need to focus everything on getting to her, not on worrying which of my friends will suffer or die in the attempt. Please..." Tamara sniffled, brushed at her eyes but nodded. "All right then. Go. We'll be waiting."

"There are many of us, Jameson," Roland said. "There are others who will come to your aid. Damien, the oldest of all of us. The first, and the strongest. He'd come in a heartbeat. And his mate, Shannon.

And so many others."

"It might very well take all of us to defeat DPI this time," Rhiannon said softly. "And if it does, we'll all be willing. Know that, Jameson. Say the word, and we'll be there." Jameson nodded. But he had no intention of risking their lives unless he had to.

A daughter. A tiny, newborn child. His child was waiting, somewhere, for her father to come and rescue her. Her father. He closed his eyes as the enormity of it hit him. Her father.

As he turned to go, a single tear fell and rolled slowly down his cheek.