Edge of Twilight (Wings in the Night #10)

Edge of Twilight (Wings in the Night #10) Page 14

Amber smelled a hint of Brooke's perfume, left over from the day before, a sweet mix of bubble gum and tropical fruit. It was like something a schoolgirl would wear, something that probably came in a pink glass bottle shaped like a kitten.

The woman came farther into the room, her steps soft and padded rather than sharp and clicking. No heels. She was wearing slippers or socks this morning. Probably still in her nightgown. She crept up to Amber's bedside, pausing every couple of steps, as if she were approaching a sleeping tiger. Step, step, pause. Her breaths were strained, as if she were trying to keep them quiet, even while her pounding heart demanded more and more oxygen. Quick, short little breaths. Amber sensed her fear.

What the hell was she doing in here, if she was so afraid?

"Hey," she whispered. "Hey, wake up."

Blinking, Amber rolled onto her side and blinked her eyes sleepily. "What?" She frowned as if puzzled, rubbed her eyes.

"I just... wanted to check on you. See if you're okay," Brookie said.

Amber sat up in the bed, a hand to her head as if she were dizzy. No way was she giving anything away to this woman. Something was wrong about her, off. Studying her face, Amber said, "Who are you?"

"I'm Brooke. I... work with Frank. Sort of."

"Oh," Amber said. "You're one of my kidnappers."

"It's not like that." Brooke's coppery curls were in disarray, her green eyes huge and round as she shot a nervous look back toward the door. "I don't like what he's doing to you. But it's not like I can stop it."

"No, of course not."

"I saw the test kit in the bathroom, so I know you used it by now. Is it true? Are you... ?"

Amber shook her head. "It's not possible."

"The test stick in the garbage read positive."

"It was a trick. Stiles has some reason for wanting me to believe this absurd notion, but I know better."

Brooke frowned at her. "How could he have tricked you? The test kit-"

"He had it made up in advance. Tampered with it so it would give a false positive. He must have been planning this for some time."

Brooke lowered her head.

"What?" Amber asked.

Copper curls moved as she looked up again. "He sent me to the drugstore for the test kit."

Amber felt her heart squeeze into a tight little knot.

"It was on the shelf with dozens of others, in probably ten different brands. He didn't tell me what brand to buy. Heck, he didn't even tell me which drugstore to use-there are three within a couple blocks of here." She shook her head slowly. "Unless he managed to tamper with every kit in all three stores. And since we've never even been to this place until the day before he took you, I don't see how... "

"The day before he kidnapped me?"

She nodded. "We were here for one night. Just long enough to set up the lab, fill the cupboards and turn up the heat. Then we headed to Salem to hunt for you. I had to keep a distance, following along by using the homing device, and just wait until he came to me."

Amber pursed her lips. "Why are you telling me all this?"

"I... you asked."

"He told you to, didn't he? He told you to try to make nice with me, to win my trust so you could try to convince me to believe in this insanity he's trying to sell me."

Brooke took a few steps backward, toward the door. "If he catches me in here, I'm in deep trouble. I just-I just felt sorry for you."

"You felt sorry for me?"

"Young, pregnant, alone. Being held against your will." She sent another glance back at the door. "Is there anything I can get for you that will make this easier?"

"Sure, several things. A key to that door would be great. I'd also like the blood he stole from my veins returned to me."

Brooke pursed her lips. "I could get you some prenatal vitamins."

"I'd prefer a machine gun. Although that wouldn't kill him anyway, would it?"

"So you know about that," Brooke whispered.

"Do you?" Amber asked.

Looking up slowly, Brooke nodded.

"What will kill him, Brooke? How can he die?"

She shook her head, backing nearer the door. "He doesn't know I know."

"I don't want to kill him," Amber said quickly. "In fact, that's the last thing I want to happen. That's why I stopped Edge from killing him." She didn't even know if the woman was aware of anything that had happened until now. Not until she said it, at least. As soon as she did, she saw the acknowledgment in Brooke's green eyes.

"I've wondered... why you did that."

"Then he told you."

She shook her head. "I read some of his notes about it. I'm not supposed to know any of this."

"Stiles is the only other person in the world who's like me," Amber said. "Do you have any idea what it's like, not knowing what can kill you?"

Brooke licked her lips, her hand turning on the doorknob.

"Please," Amber asked, knowing she was about to lose her best chance.

Brooke met her eyes. "Incineration." She spat the word quickly as she jerked the door open. "Till there's nothing left but ash. It's the only way." Ducking out the door, she closed it softly behind her and turned the lock.

Licking her lips, Amber sat down to digest the information she'd been given. And yet, she couldn't really trust any of it. There was no way to be sure Stiles hadn't put Brooke up to this entire little visitation.

She was hungry. She thought about her hidden snacks and the file on Edge, wondered if Stiles would be in to check on her anytime soon and decided to risk it. She climbed onto the bed, reaching up into the ceiling, and retrieved her bag. Then she sat on the bed, opened the file folder, peeled the banana and kept her senses alert for Stiles's approach.

"Right there, see?"

Edge stood in brilliant sunlight, beside a gaunt, tough-looking kid of about seventeen. It shocked him to be standing in the sunlight and not burning. But after a moment he accepted that it simply was and focused on the boy. The kid wore faded jeans, with straight legs and worn-out knees. The hems were frayed. His hair was too long, dark and straight, and tended to fall into his eyes.

"Right there," the boy said again.

He was pointing, and Edge looked. There was a small, ordinary looking brick house, on a hilltop. Steps landscaped into the lawn zigzagged up the hill to the front door. There was a wrought-iron fence around the place, but it looked more ornamental than functional.

"That's where she is?" Edge asked.

"Yeah."

"How do you know?"

"What difference does it make? She's in there. You want to see?"

Edge felt his heart contract. "God, yes."

The kid smiled a little, gave a nod.

Edge felt his brain twist and whirl as if being sucked into a whirlpool. He pressed his hands to the sides of his head, grimacing in pain. And then just as suddenly there was a pop and a rush of relief. He blinked his vision into focus, gave his head a shake. "Jesus, what the hell was that?" At least the pain was gone. He lowered his hands to his sides and looked around.

He was in a tiny room, and right in front of him, Alby sat in a bed, under the covers, with her back braced against the headboard and her knees bent. An open file folder rested against her thighs. She was staring at something inside it. A banana peel and an apple core lay on the bed beside her, and she was working on devouring a granola bar and sucking down a bottle of tomato juice.

"Alby!" He moved closer, noting her color was still pale, but otherwise, she looked well. God, he wished he could sustain his indignation, his anger. But right now all he could feel was relief at seeing her again. "Are you all right?"

She didn't move, didn't react in any way, and when Edge reached out a hand to touch her, to shake her out of her apparent stupor if necessary, his hand moved right through her. As if one of them were made of smoke.

"This is a dream, Edge. She doesn't even know you're here," his companion told him.

"The hell she doesn't. Alby!" He shouted her name with his entire being, with his mind, with his soul.

She blinked, frowned, and looked up from the file folder, glancing around the room as if she'd heard or sensed something. Edge focused everything in him on her. I'm coming for you.

She continued to look around the room, then sighed and focused again on the pages she was reading so intently. Curious, Edge moved around until he could see what had her so engrossed.

The left side of the folder held a line drawing that bore a striking resemblance, Edge thought, to himself. It showed a lanky young man in a leather jacket, sitting on the hood of a '69 Mustang, a cigarette dangling from one hand.

Wait a minute, that was his Mustang.

He glanced at the facing page and saw a thick sheaf of papers, line after line of typed words, telling his story-or Stiles's version of it, anyway.

Again he was sucked headfirst into the vortex, and this time when he popped out the other side, he found himself returning to the warehouse on that horrible night in 1959.

Hell, no. No, I don't want to see this.

But he couldn't control the scene playing out in front of him, and he knew, somehow, through gut instinct, why. This was Alby's mind. He was seeing what she imagined as she read Stiles's account. Watching himself. Things didn't look exactly as they had been. The warehouse was cleaner, neater, the windows unbroken as he moved through it. And he looked different, too, more as he was today and less as he had been then.

He tried to withdraw from Amber's consciousness, but it wasn't possible. This wasn't like reading her thoughts, trespassing inside her mind. He didn't know what the hell this was. It was different, beyond his control.

He closed his eyes, and still he saw. He saw himself walking into the warehouse, heard himself calling out to Scottie and Bridget and the others. "I'm back. Didn't find Billy Boy. Has he come home yet?"

But only his own voice echoed back in answer. He remembered the dread, the certainty that something was terribly wrong.

He kept moving, and then, suddenly, he smelled it even stronger than before.

Death, rank and bloody, tinged the air with its reeking stench. It was coming from here, from inside the warehouse. "God, no," he heard himself whisper, and he ran forward, across the warehouse's floor, around the corner. Then he skidded to a stop and fought down the bile as he saw what awaited him there.

They hung upside down, suspended from the rafters high above, by ropes wrapped around their ankles. Their throats had been cut. Every one of them. Bridget, her little girl face streaked in blood. It had soaked her red curls, dripped from them into the pool on the floor. Her terror still echoed in the air.

He heard his own voice crying out in denial, felt the weakness that overwhelmed him until he sank to his knees, felt the hot tears welling in his eyes and spilling over.

Dead. Gone. All of them. And he was alone.

Staggering to his feet, he gathered his wits, leaped upward, to the loft, and looked at the items on the floor. Items that identified the killer clearly, just by the ones that were missing. Stiles. Frank W. Stiles. He would remember the name for the rest of his days.

He tugged out his pocketknife. One by one he cut the ropes, gripping them and lowering the lifeless shells of the vampiric children to the floor below, gently, with great care. His kids, he'd called them. His fledgling gang. The closest thing he would ever have to children of his own. When he jumped down from the loft again, he knelt beside them, shaking his head, touching their faces, washing them with his tears, speaking to them.

Edge spoke to his past self. "You idiot, shake off the grief and realize he's still there somewhere. He's watching. You could get him right now, right there! Wake up!"

But of course he couldn't change the past. In the past, he'd been too overwhelmed with grief and horror to think about opening his mind to the space around him. He watched as his former self went for a pail of water and a washrag, and proceeded to bathe the blood from his orphans. He watched as the past Edge went to wash the streaks of it from Bridget's delicate face.

Stiles. The name whispered through his mind with a certainty that couldn't be denied. Anger rushed through him, like fire through his veins. His blood turned to lava. He would find the bastard, wherever he was, and he would kill him.

But first...

The old Edge went through the kids' belongings, locating clothes for them, dressing them. Then he chose one item from each of them, to keep in their memory.

He lit a cigarette then. Sat on the floor, their bodies all laid out before him, smoking, talking to them.

"I'll get him," he said. "I'll get him for what he did to you. I promise you that. He'll pay."

And finally he got to his feet and flicked his cigarette into the pool of kerosene he'd poured around them. Then he left his home for the last time.

It was only as he stood outside, watching it burn, that he felt the presence. Someone was there... watching him.

Stiles!

He whirled, honing his senses to locate the man. Bastard! The nerve to hang around and watch him suffer! Watch him grieve!

He opened his mind, searching, casting a wide net, and sensing, even as he did, the man fleeing, escaping, slipping out of Edge's reach.

And then the images ended.

Edge's brain was nearly crushed under the pressure as he was sucked out of the consciousness he'd been inside and found himself back in the bedroom again, watching her, watching Amber Lily.

She closed the file folder, but the drawing was no longer inside. She held it, staring at it as tears flowed down her cheeks. "No wonder," she whispered. "God, no wonder you hate Stiles so much."

He shook off the excruciating pain of the memory. Never mind that, he thought at her. It's over. It doesn't matter anymore. Just stay alive. I'm coming to get you.

He jerked his head around-and so did she-at the sound of footsteps in the hall. She quickly jumped to her feet, shoving the file folder and banana peel and granola bar wrapper up into the ceiling. Then she dropped into the bed again and instantly went limp.

Her strength wasn't what it should be, but it wasn't seriously waning, either. The speed with which she'd moved was proof enough of that. Good.

The locks turned, and the door opened.

Edge's eyes narrowed as the bastard, Stiles, entered the room. Instinctively he lunged at the man, reaching for his throat, only to move right through him, bodily, which left him feeling sick and dizzy. He shook himself. Then the man moved closer to Amber, and Edge was surprised his anger didn't knock Stiles on his ass. It didn't, though. Stiles reached for Amber, lifting her hand, and letting it go. It dropped limply onto the blankets. He tapped her cheeks, moving her head back and forth.

"Amber Lily. Come on, wake up. You should eat something. We want to keep the baby healthy, now, don't we?"

Edge reeled. God, it was true, then, what he'd sensed before. Amber Lily was pregnant. She knew it now, if she hadn't before. She knew what he'd only sensed inside her, what he hadn't even been certain was real. More importantly-more chillingly-Stiles knew, as well. Where the hell was this child's father? He should be here, taking steps to protect his offspring. But he wasn't. Edge resented it. He resented being the only one who cared when the child wasn't his own, couldn't be his own. Which was utterly stupid, since the last thing on earth he wanted was a child. He never wanted to be responsible for anyone ever again. Only for himself.

He resented Amber Lily for not telling him she'd been with someone else before him. She'd just let him believe she was a virgin. Why? It burned like hell to know she'd been with someone else. Some other man had touched her, kissed her...

Hell.

She blinked her eyes open, and in a slurred voice said, "Stop it. There's no baby."

Stiles smiled, shaking his head. "You're a stubborn one, I'll give you that." He set the tray of food on the dresser. He started to say something else, but Edge was suddenly jerked out of the scene, jerked from everything, and sucked back into his own body. When he woke in the barn, which was as far as they'd managed to get last night before having to seek shelter from the sun, he realized that night had fallen.

Dante and Donovan were standing over him, brushing hay from their clothes and looking worried.

"What the hell... ?" Edge's head was pounding, and he pressed a hand to it, closing his eyes tightly.

"You were thrashing around in your sleep," Dante told him. "Muttering, clutching your head."

"For a while we didn't think you were going to wake," Donovan put in. "Damn strange. The day sleep is too deep for dreaming."

"It was no dream." Edge sat up slowly and lowered his hands from his head. "I think it was more like a-I don't know-it felt as if my spirit left my body." He looked from one man to the other, seeing curiosity rather than blatant disbelief. It gave him the nudge to go on. "There was a guide of some sort. He took me to Amber."

Dante lifted his brows. "Is she all right?"

He nodded. "Yes. For some reason Stiles's tranquilizer isn't affecting her, but she's pretending that it is. He's holding her in a house, in Boston. I saw it clearly." He could have kicked himself for wasting time, coming here, to where he'd last seen Amber, only to find she'd been a half hour from Salem the entire time.

"We'll have her Out of there before this night is out," Dante said.

"What else?" Donovan asked. "Edge, what the hell is it you're keeping from us?"

Edge sighed, shielded his mind and lowered his head. It was up to Amber Lily to tell them about her little secret. It wasn't his place, had nothing to do with him. "Nothing. We should let her family know where we think she is, and that we're going after her."

"Good idea," Dante said. "They're bringing two vehicles, they said. Can't be more than a couple of hours out by now."

"Can you reach them telepathically? Tell them where to meet us?"

Dante nodded.

"Then let's go get Alby," Edge said.

Amber didn't trust the meals Stiles had been bringing her throughout the day, though she had to admit she was surprised by his changed demeanor. He was treating her almost... tenderly, checking on her often. Too often. It had taken her most of the day to get through the file he kept on Edge, because his constant visits kept interrupting her. Edge had been hunting him since 1959 but had only had luck locating him since the destruction of the DPI. Prior to that, Stiles theorized, the protection of the organization had kept him too well covered for anyone to track him down. Edge had tried to kill him twice, Stiles had written. Smashed his head in with a brick once, and stabbed him once-more than twelve times. But both times Stiles had revived.

She supposed Stiles hadn't had the chance to add the latest attempt to this set of notes, with the neck crushing back in the barn. There must be other notes somewhere; the ones Brooke had seen.

Stiles set the latest plate of food he'd brought, a bedtime snack she supposed, on the nightstand beside the bed and leaned over to plump her pillows.

"How are you feeling?"

"Queasy as hell. I'm not sure I can eat this."

He nodded. "That's normal early in a pregnancy, according to what I've been reading."

She lifted her brows. "You've been reading about pregnancy?" She almost asked him if bloating were common. Her jeans were feeling awfully snug. Even if this pregnancy were for real-which it was not-she wouldn't be swelling at this early date.

"I sent Brookie out for some books today. Though I doubt any of them deal with this particular sort of gestation."

She licked her lips as he set the tray on her lap and pulled up a chair. "Why would you do that, Stiles?"

He shrugged. "Sure you can't manage to eat just a little?"

"You're planning to keep me here a while, aren't you? Long enough that you feel you need to know about prenatal care." She picked at the food, not eating any. Not because she wasn't starved to death, though.

"Nothing this noteworthy has happened in vampire research since... well, since your own birth. Naturally, I want to record it."

"And you need more of my blood, as well. To make the serum, the Ambrosia-Six."

He shook his head slowly. "What I took yesterday is enough for my next round of injections. I'm not taking any more of your blood, Amber, not until the child is born. I don't want to put it at risk, and besides, I don't even know the serum will work the same way as before. Your blood is different now that you're pregnant."

She resisted the urge to deny it yet again. He was determined to keep pushing this fantasy, so fine. She would go along with it. "Have you tried? Making your serum from the blood you took from me, I mean?"

He nodded. "I finished it this morning," he said. "Since your blood is different, this will have to be Ambrosia-Seven." Then he looked at her sharply. "Why do you want to know?"

She shrugged and averted her eyes. "I want to know every thing... about me, about what I am, how I... work." She dared to look at him again.

He still seemed slightly suspicious.

"It's frustrating, not knowing simple things... how long I'll live, whether I'm still aging, how I can die."

His face altered, a hint of sympathy appearing in his eyes. "Whether your baby will be normal?'' he asked.

Deciding to play along, she nodded hard. "That most of all."

He shrugged. "The serum's effect lasts six months. When it begins to wear off, I tend to age rapidly, but it stops the moment I inject more. I don't know how those things apply to you. You've always aged normally. Chances are your child will, as well."

She had aged normally, she thought-but only up to the first time Stiles had killed her, just to see if she would revive. That memory was a sharp reminder of this man's true nature. He was evil. Any sympathy he showed now was only an act. A ruse. He was trying to gain her trust for some sick reason.

If she didn't know better, she would think he wanted to keep her calm and happy long enough to get his hands on her baby. But she did know better. Because there was no baby.

"Have you tried the new serum yet?"

"I don't need it yet. Won't for another five or six weeks. And I do have one more vial of the A-Six remaining. Although I have to admit, I'm eager to see how the new formula works. Your blood seems... enhanced somehow from what it was before. It might be even more potent than the last batch."

"Really?"

"Mmm. Ambrosia-Seven might just be my greatest work yet."

"Then again," she whispered, "it may not work at all."

"I'm afraid that's all too true."

At least it was made, Amber thought. All she had to do now was get her hands on it and get out of here. The second he slept, she thought. The very second...

He got to his feet. "I'm going to move you soon, to a more secure location. That way we can dispense with the tranquilizer, just to be on the safe side."

He paused, as if expecting her to thank him for that. She didn't.

"For now, though... " He took a hypodermic from his lab coat pocket.

She flinched as he jabbed it into her arm but told herself it was all right. It was only salt water.

Only it wasn't. He must have restocked the little black bag, or taken this batch from another source. Her head swam, and she cursed under her breath.

"Just relax. Get some sleep," he said, taking the food from her lap, setting it aside, and then putting his hands on her shoulders to ease her gently onto the pillows. "There now. Don't fight it."

The sleep rolled in like the tide, covering her consciousness, sweeping it away.

She had the dream again. It unfolded in its familiar way. She saw Edge, standing across a darkened room, facing her. In his arms, there was the ornate little box, like a miniature treasure chest. He stared down into it, his face stricken. Then he turned, to bring it across the room toward her.

"No," she whispered. "I don't want it."

Again he bent lower as he approached the bed, so that she could look inside.

"I don't want to look," she heard herself saying. "Please, don't make me look." But she had no choice. And this time, when she looked at what the box held, the dream didn't fade as it had all the other times. It didn't black out. It didn't change. She saw it very clearly. It was a bundle, something small, wrapped in soft blankets.

She felt her heart begin to pound in her chest, because of what that bundle looked like. And yet she couldn't see beyond the blankets. Her gaze shot to Edge's face, and she caught her breath. A single teardrop rolled slowly down his cheek. She looked to the bundle in the box again. It was still. No movement, no motion.

Edge moved nearer, lifting the box closer to her.

And now she could see the tiny elfin face. The closed eyes. The blue-tinted skin. The deathly stillness.

Death. She was looking at the face of death. And her own child was wearing it.

The sound of her screams woke her.

Edge heard Amber Lily scream and sprang from where he was crouched behind a parked car. Donovan's hand on his shoulder stopped him from racing forward. "Easy. We have to wait for the others."

"The hell we do!"

"Edge, don't be foolish," Dante said sharply. "We'll have a far better chance of rescuing her unharmed once Rhiannon and Roland arrive with her parents."

"Unharmed?" He sent the man a look of sheer disbelief. "Did that scream sound to you as if she were unharmed?"

"There's strength in numbers."

"I've got all the strength I need." He shook off the hand that held him, ran for the house, vaulted the fence and kicked in the front door.

Some kind of alarm went off, emitting short, ear-splitting shrieks. He heard someone running toward him, saw Stiles's shocked expression as he appeared in front of him, dressed in pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, a tranquilizer gun in his hand.

Edge hit the man so hard and so fast he never had time to pull the trigger. Stiles sailed bodily through the air, hit the wall, splitting it, and then slid to the floor. The gun landed on the floor at his feet, and Edge stomped it to bits as he strode through the house. He wasn't worried about Stiles. The other two men would be on his heels, and they would handle him. For now. "Alby! Where are you?"

There was nothing, no reply. He walked down the hall, smashing every door he came to with the flat of one hand. Each one flew open, crashed into the wall behind it and bounced back at him. Each room was empty.

Until the last one. And that was where he found her.

She lay in the bed, barely conscious, her eyes bleary and unfocused, her hair tangled and damp with sweat. Edge went to her, stripping back the covers and gathering her into his arms. She wore a nightgown of soft white muslin. She was weeping, trembling all over. Straightening, Edge turned to take her out of this place.

"No," she whispered.

He stopped. She was pointing at the ceiling. "Get the... file."

"Screw the file." He carried her through the open door into the hall.

"Edge, please!" She lifted her head, spoke as if forcing power into her words. "The lab. The serum." She closed her eyes slowly, clearly under the influence of a powerful narcotic.

"Where?" he asked.

She lifted a weak hand, pointing, and he carried her through the house, spotting Dante and Donovan leaning over Stiles's motionless body.

"Take care," Edge called to them. "He'll revive." Then, to Amber, "Which way?"

Again she pointed, and he crossed the room, entered another hallway, and kicked open yet another door. The spotless white laboratory stood there, immaculate as before. And empty. The refrigerator door stood open, and there was nothing inside. File drawers were likewise gaping and void. Amber looked around, then let her head fall limp against his shoulder.

"Oh, no."

"Who else was here?"

She licked her lips. "A woman. Brooke." Her eyes opened again. "The computer... ?"

He looked where she was looking, saw an empty desk. "Gone. As we should be."

He carried her back into the living room, where Donovan was securing Stiles's hands behind his back. Dante came in from another room. "The house is empty."

"Amber says there was a woman here."

Dante lifted his brows. "If there was, she left before we ever arrived."

"Well, she took Stiles's notes and his serum with her," Edge told them. Then he nodded toward Donovan. "Those cuffs won't hold him once he revives."

"Then we'd best see to it he doesn't revive, don't you think?" a woman's voice asked. Everyone turned to see Rhiannon entering the house. Behind her, another woman, one Edge had never seen before, raced toward him. And he knew, when he looked at her face, she had to be Amber's mother. She had the same penetrating eyes and sculpted cheekbones. She was stunning, and yet she didn't compare to her daughter.

She ran her hands over Amber's face, stroked her hair. "My darling," she whispered. "Tell me you're all right."

"I'm okay," Amber said, her voice weak, strained. It was fully obvious she was far from all right. "Stiles... has a device. Heel of his shoe. Homing beacon," she managed to tell them.

"I'll take care of it," Donovan said.

Amber's mother shot a look at Edge, obviously worried about Amber's drowsy, drunken state. He said, "It's the tranquilizer." He guessed its effects were the reason he'd been unable to sense Amber, to know which room she was in. "It'll wear off soon enough."

A man came in from the back of the house, apparently having entered that way. He strode right up to Edge, gathering Amber from his arms and into his own. "It's okay, hon. I've got you now."

Edge hoped, for the man's sake, he was Amber's father. Otherwise...

"I take it you're the fellow who used my daughter's life as bait for Stiles?"

"Easy, Bryant," Dante said. "He's also the man who led us to her and got her out."

"I can walk," Amber said, her voice still slurred. "Please, Dad, put me down."

Jameson Bryant looked at his daughter for a long moment, then hugged her fiercely before setting her on her feet. She looked at Edge, and her eyes seemed to pierce his soul. "Edge had reasons for what he did," she said, speaking to her father but never looking away. "And he had no intention of letting Stiles get anywhere near me."

"It was a mistake," Edge said. "If I could undo it, I would."

"I think you just did," Angelica said softly.

Rhiannon gripped Stiles by his shirt collar. "Let's get out of here. No doubt that alarm was heard beyond these walls." Turning, she dragged Stiles across the floor, his body bumping down the steps behind her.

The others followed, but Amber faltered with her first steps. Edge reached for her, but her mother was faster, gathering her close and helping her walk. And then, suddenly, Angelica stopped. Her eyes went wide, and she looked at her daughter.

"What? What's wrong?"

Angelica opened her mouth, closed it again, shot a look at Edge, and then at Jameson, who followed behind them. She licked her lips and seemed to battle tears. "Nothing. Never mind." Closing her eyes, she tucked Amber's head onto her own shoulder. Then she started forward again.

She knew. Edge had seen it in her eyes. She knew. Hell, if they thought he was responsible for Amber's condition, he would probably be dust by this time tomorrow.

Her family would stake him out in the desert to await the sunrise.

Fortunately for him, everyone knew such a thing was impossible. Male vampires were sterile. Amber's child could not be his.