Twilight Illusions

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

She tried not to notice how fast she was walking, or that she didn't get winded, or that her heart didn't even speed up. She ignored the fact that, while she felt the cold as she never had before, felt its crisp touch on every inch of her body, she didn't feel cold, or uncomfortable with it. She didn't get goose bumps or shiver. She tried to pay no attention to the incredibly flavorful taste of every breath she drew, or the scents of every plant and animal she passed, and of the air itself.
God, but she'd never been so aware!
When she reached Damien's house, she climbed the gate with no trouble, wondering about this new agility and strength. She walked inside, resisting the astonishing differences. The colors in the Turkish rugs that she'd never seen before. The intricate patterns. The smell of the fire. The taste of the wood smoke.
It would overwhelm her if she paid attention. She felt she could sit for hours and explore her heightened senses. The flames in the hearth...
My God, the flames. Look at them!
She stared, paralyzed by the beauty of the dancing tongues of light and energy and color. She had to force herself to break away.
Not now. Not now. She wanted only to gather up her belongings, toss them into her car and drive far away from here. Far away from Damien and Eric Marquand and this entire nightmare she'd fallen into.
She started through the round room, not intending to pause at all, when something stopped her. Some inner knowledge she couldn't understand made the hair on her nape stand up. And she went still, trying to find the source. Finally she turned around. Her gaze went to the arched doorway on the other side, and Bachman stepped out from his hiding place just beyond the beads, his gun pointed right at her.
Some hysterical person inside her began to laugh. It began as a chuckle and grew, gaining strength until she was gripping her middle with both hands, tears pooling in her eyes. She could easily have let it go on until she sank to the floor and the laughter led to hysteria and the hysteria to madness. But she didn't. She caught hold of herself. She stopped the laughter and eyed the weapon. "Bachman, what are you doing? You want me to take that one away from you, too?"
"Where is he. Shannon?"
She shrugged and wiped her eyes dry. "Not here. But you must already know that. You've been searching the place all day, haven't you?"
He frowned, scanning her face, and she stiffened, wondering what he saw. She waited, her breath halted.
"You've been crying. Why?"
She blinked, nearly limp with relief. He didn't see the change, he couldn't. Mindful of the marks on her neck, she lowered her head. When she lifted it again her hair hung down the front of her shoulders, hiding the wounds. "Oh, Bachman, why didn't I listen to you?" She let a few new tears dampen her lashes. "I thought I loved him, you know. But he left me. Just walked out."
"And you don't know where he went?"
She shook her head sadly. "I hate him now." It wasn't true. She didn't know what she felt for Damien anymore, but it wasn't hatred. She didn't think it ever would be.
Bachman nodded, but didn't put the gun away. His face softened a little. "Shannon, come with me to the institute. We might be able to help you there."
It was a lie. She knew it the second the words left his lips. She wasn't even certain Bachman knew it was a lie, but she did. Amazing. Not the slight intuition she'd felt when he'd lied to her before, but a glaring neon sign flashing in her mind. "Are there others there, others like me?"
He nodded, and for an instant she glimpsed a frightening image. Men and women imprisoned in cell-like rooms. Strapped to tables. Desolation in their faces.
She licked her lips. "I don't know." Fear gripped her heart. He might honestly think he could help her, but she knew he couldn't. If she went with him, she'd become a prisoner, a research object, a guinea pig. She took a step away from him. "I'll think about it, though. Give me until tomorrow to--"
His eyes narrowed and the gun's muzzle lifted a fraction. He shook his head. "No, Shannon. You're coming with me now."
She felt herself go cold all over.
"I'm not leaving here without you," he said softly, dangerously. "I wanted to wait until I had him, but he's gone. My chance to get him is gone. But I'm not going back to White Plains empty-handed. And I'm damned well not leaving you here to die." He shook his head. "Besides, I'm not sure you don't know where he is. Maybe I can convince you to tell me."
"I told you--I don't know. He's gone. He's not coming back." She defended Damien instantly and without any hesitation. Yes, she was angry with him for what he'd done to her. But this was instinctive and had nothing to do with the other.
"He'll come if you're in trouble, I think. I didn't want to do it this way. Shannon, but if I were to, say, shoot you, I think he'd know. I think he'd be here in a matter of minutes. Seconds, maybe." He worked the action of the gun.
Fear rippled through her and her mind sought wildly for an answer. But the sixth sense she'd felt before seemed to have deserted her. Was he bluffing or would he really do it? She couldn't just stand there and let him shoot her. She held her hands in front of her, palms out. "No, don't. I'll go with you. I'll tell you where he is--I will."
Bachman nodded, his frown altering, softening. "I figured you'd change your mind. Don't worry about him, Shannon. He won't suffer. That's if I decide to let him live long enough to take him in. I might not. He's a murderer. Someone has to stop him. Someone has to stop them all."
Then there were others. Others like Damien, hunted and persecuted by people like Bachman, and maybe even killed. Just as Eric Marquand's notes had said. It was too horrible to believe.
She lowered her head, chin to chest, and forced a couple of sobs. She took one faltering, weak-kneed step toward him, then another. She swayed sideways, catching herself on a table. Her palm pressed to her forehead and her eyes closed.
He strode to her, gripping her forearm none too gently. It hurt, though she didn't think he meant it to. Her skin seemed more sensitive than before. When he squeezed her arm, pain shot all the way to her shoulder.
She lifted her other hand, settled it on his shoulder as if for support. Her fingers clenched hard into his flesh. Her knee rose and connected. She'd expected him to double over in pain, giving her time to escape.
Instead he launched into the air, propelled by the simple lifting motion of her knee into his groin. He screamed aloud, a hoarse, gravelly yell, and he sailed backward, hitting the floor five feet away. The gun skittered across the marble tiles to stop near the hearth, well beyond his reach. Then he doubled over.
Shannon's hand flew to her mouth, and she felt as if her eyes would pop out of their sockets. "Did I do that?" she whispered. "Ah, hell, this is so frigging strange."
He struggled to his feet, rage in his eyes, even as Shannon thought that those thugs who'd tried to steal her car ought to try it again now. If they thought she'd given them what for last time. She halted that speculating as Bachman stood, took one staggering step forward, lifted a shaking hand, forefinger extended.
"You ... you're one of them."
"Not by choice," she muttered. "Look, Bachman, why don't you just get the hell out of here before I really hurt you, okay?"
He glanced toward the gun, took a step toward it. She leapt, easily covering the distance in a single, gazelle like move, and put herself between Bachman and the weapon. He thrust a hand into a pocket and emerged with a blade. "Come on, Shannon. Come over here and try that again." He was panting, breathless, obviously in pain.
She held her hand up, telling him to stop. "Don't do this," she said softly. "Don't..."
"You think I want to?" He moved nearer, still brandishing the blade. She backed away, but he advanced. "I could kill you, you know," he rasped. "One little nick, honey, and then I could stand here and watch you bleed." She gasped. "Give it up, Shannon. Don't make me do it."
He lunged, and the blade swept toward her. She jumped back again and he missed--perhaps deliberately, she couldn't be sure but now her back was against the mantel. There was no more retreat. Nowhere to go. He stood in front of her, grim- faced, and she recalled Damien's having told her how easily she could bleed to death.
Bachman lifted the blade. He pressed its pointed tip to her throat. "Say you'll come with me Shannon. Don't make me hurt you."
She'd die before she'd go with him. She had to do something. Her hand groped behind her, moving slowly, so as not to alert him. It bumped the glass cube that enclosed one of Damien's artifacts. She lifted the glass, set it aside and clenched her fist on the section of stone tablet.
And in that instant, that very instant as she felt the pressure of the cold blade increase, felt its tip press harder into her flesh, she sensed as clearly as if he'd spoken it, his intent to kill her unless she cooperated. And to kill Damien, as well. She knew only one thing. She didn't want to die. Damien had been right about that.
In a surge of strength brought on by panic, a surge she didn't try to gauge or temper, she swung the stone forward, catching him in the side of his head.
He fell sideways and his body slammed to the floor so hard she thought he'd cracked the marble. He didn't move, of course. She blinked, felt the bile rise up in her throat, wanted to retch. She tore away from the wall and ran to the door, flinging it open, racing through it--and colliding hard with a broad chest.
"Shannon--"
His arms closed around her, and she sagged against Damien, clinging to his neck, sobbing. "I think I killed him. Oh, God, I think I killed him."
"I'm sorry. Shannon. I came as fast as I could, the second I sensed something wrong, but--"
He broke off, threading his fingers in her hair, lifting her into his arms. He carried her back through the house, holding her face to his shoulder as they passed through his comfort room. He took her up the stairs, laid her gently on the bed. "Shannon, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say."
She searched his face, his beloved, beautiful face, and she didn't know what to say, either. Her fingers clenched, and she realized she still held the stone. She drew it up to her chest, rolled slowly to her side, facing away from him, and closed her eyes.
Sighing, Damien covered her with a blanket, and left her alone.
* * * * *
Damien went downstairs to check on Bachman's condition, but the man was gone. Shannon hadn't killed him after all. It would be a relief to her to know that.
Eric's voice came from the doorway. "Are you all right?"
Before Damien formed an answer, his lovely young mate came forward, with all the grace of a ballerina in the midst of a dance. She drew a flask from a pocket inside her coat, and offered it to him. "Here, Damien. You're white as chalk. Drink."
"Tamara, love, that isn't--" Eric began, but he paused, searching Damien's awe struck face. "What is it, my friend?"
A burden floated away from Damien's shoulders. "The need. The thirst. By the love of Inanna, it's changed. Altered. I don't feel..." He smiled softly at Tamara and took the small flask from her hands. He drained it, and by the gods, it assuaged the emptiness inside him. It satisfied his thirst as thoroughly as it had thousands of years ago. He didn't feel that raging need to take from a living being. Not even a twinge of it.
Eric studied his face, reading all of these thoughts, Damien knew. "Amazing," he whispered.
"Not so amazing." Tamara tilted her head, sending spirals of raven curls over her shoulder. Her black eyes glittered with knowledge and Damien shot her a searching glance. "I know about your problems feeding, Damien. Eric and I don't keep secrets. But honestly, you men are so dense about some things. Every species has to procreate. Nature gives them all urges that, when followed, lead to mating and reproduction. Is it so farfetched that we're burdened with the same urges? The need to drink from the living gets stronger, more maddening, more demanding, until you perform the ritual, the creating of another one of us. Then the need vanishes."
Eric shook his head in blatant amazement. "So, we must transform one of the Chosen once every thousand years or so, in order to preserve our sanity." He smiled, then laughed. "Makes perfect sense, Tamara."
Her brows rose in perfect arches. "Sure it does."
Damien paced to the chaise and sank into it. "One problem less to deal with. Why do I still feel like hell?"
"You ought to rest. It's nearly dawn. And your Shannon should be moved from that bedroom, with those big windows." Pretty young Tamara wrinkled her nose. "Although I don't think she's quite ready yet to wake up in a coffin."
"No. I think we'll be safe enough here today, in my usual place. I just wish I knew what happened to Bachman."
"You won't have to worry about him--for a while, at least," Eric said. "He staggered into the street and collapsed. A carload of teens found him and they sent someone for an ambulance. Even if Bachman comes to and starts talking, no one will pay much attention. A man with a head injury, raving about vampires, isn't exactly believable. It ought to be at least a day before he can contact DPI for reinforcements. You ought to be prepared to leave here then, though, Damien. They don't take these kinds of things well at all." He paced away. "What of Netty?"
"I bought her a ticket on a cruise ship that leaves at first light, paid her off enough to make her think twice about betraying me again."
"Good. Your troubles are dissipating, my friend," Eric said cheerfully. "You've whittled them down to two--Shannon's mind-set and this rogue in the city."
"And we'll deal with all that tonight." Tamara tugged on Eric's arm. "If we'd brought Rhiannon along, she'd have had that rogue for breakfast."
"Which is exactly why I asked you not to mention this either to her or Roland. Tamara, love, we have no idea of this renegade's age or strength. Rhiannon would charge in, fearless as always, and perhaps get herself killed."
Damien's mouth quirked up at one corner. "This woman sounds like someone I'd like to meet."
"Only in a good mood, believe me," Eric intoned. Tamara elbowed him and dragged him to the door. "Good rest. Damien."
"Good rest," he replied without thinking. He watched them go, then turned to tackle the problem of Shannon.
* * * * *
He came back, as she'd known he would. He just couldn't seem to understand that she needed time to herself. She rolled onto her back and faced him. Then she wished she hadn't. There was pain in his eyes when he looked at her.
She sniffed and sat up. "I felt strong before, but it's waning. Is it only temporary?"
"It's almost daylight." He spoke softly. "Day weakens us. We rest until dark, and wake feeling strong as ever." He approached slowly, as if waiting for her to object. When she didn't, he sat on the edge of the bed. "You must have a thousand questions."
She nodded.
"But it's almost dawn." He licked his lips, obviously nervous. "Shannon, you made it clear you don't want to spend eternity with me. Don't want to depend on me at all. There are others who can answer your questions. You don't have to bring them to me."
She swallowed hard, lowering her head. She'd hurt him by saying those things. "I didn't mean--"
He held up a hand. "I want you to stay with me through today. There's no time to find you another safe place to rest. I'm not trying to force myself on you, I promise. I just want you safe. There's another vampire in the city. The one who killed Tawny and the other woman. Eric and I will find him and stop him. After that you're free to go where you want. Run to the other side of the world--"
She shook her head hard. "I didn't mean--"
"Bachman isn't dead," he told her. "But he'll be out of action for a while. Still, there are others, that organization he works for--they'd like to eradicate us. And this other vampire, an evil bastard who hates me for reasons I still don't understand. It isn't safe for you to go out alone until I find him, but I swear, it won't be long. Eric and I will leave with the sunset to hunt him down. Then you can leave with my blessing."
She closed her eyes, knowing she'd hurt him deeply, maybe beyond repair. He held out a hand to her. She took it and rose from the bed. Without a word, he led her through the hall, up another flight of stairs and through a door on the third floor. He walked right into a closet, and she was surprised when the wall that was the closet's back slid open. He drew her inside, slid the door closed again, hit a button, and the lights came up. Music began. Sting, her favorite. An exotic incense filled the air. He touched her hair, then abruptly drew his hand away.
"You can have the bed," he said, his voice hoarse. "I'll take a blanket and lie on the floor."
"You'll be uncomfortable..."
"Not really." He smiled very slightly. "I sleep like the dead."
God, what was wrong with her? Wasn't this the same man she'd fallen in love with? Couldn't she find a way to forgive him for forcing her into an existence she wasn't sure she could bear?
She tried. She tried to judge her feelings for Damien. She'd been so sure before, just before all of this. When he'd made love to her, she'd known she was deeply in love with him. There'd been no doubt. And only the knowledge that she was dying had kept her from telling him so. She hadn't wanted to hurt him. But what about now? Could she love him now? Knowing what he was... what he'd made her?
She'd realized that she didn't want to die. But did she want to live? Like this?
"Give it a chance, Shannon," he whispered. "Don't walk out into the sunrise just yet."
"I wasn't thinking of that."
"Make sure you don't." She sat on the edge of the bed and he came to her, knelt in front of her, took her hands. "Hate me for bringing you over, if you have to. But don't hate yourself or what you are. You haven't changed, not really. You're the same beautiful, vibrant, wonderful woman you were before. You're still strong and capable, and as independent as you want to be."
"I have changed." She averted her eyes. "I thought I'd killed Bachman. I'm glad I didn't, but I could have, Damien. I don't think I can stand the thought of taking a life."
"You wouldn't have hurt him if you hadn't been forced. You don't know the extent of your strength yet. Shannon. And that wouldn't have happened if I'd been here faster. It was more my fault than yours." She didn't look at him, and he hurried on. "You hit the men who tried to steal your car. One of them could have hit his head and died. But you didn't find yourself questioning the value of your mortal life when it was over, did you?"
She blinked and met his gaze. "No."
"It was an unavoidable accident. Shannon. Self-defense. And Bachman is going to recover. You didn't kill anyone. Try to put it behind you."
"But don't you have to kill people ... to live?" He closed his eyes as if that remark hurt him. She licked her lips. "You don't, do you?" Slowly, she shook her head. "No, you couldn't. You couldn't even bring yourself to kill that mouse...."
"I cherish life, all life. I despise death. Shannon. It took away the dearest, most beloved friend I ever had, until you. It tried to claim you, as well."
As she listened to him, her mind grew heavy and foggy as it had been when she'd first awakened. She glanced down at the stone she still clutched, and blinked.
Damien was easing her back onto the pillows. She stared up at his face in wonder, and recalled the story he'd told her, the ending to the Epic of Gilgamesh. The one that had never been recorded, that he called his own personal theory.
"He found the secret," she whispered. "But it didn't make him a god, and it didn't give him the power to bring Enkidu back. It only condemned him to an endless existence, to watching death win over and over again."
The greatest king ever to rule, driven to the edge of insanity by the grief of losing his closest friend. She lifted a hand and pressed her palm to his cheek. "It was you."
His eyes fell closed. He lay down beside her, wrapping his arms around her. "You felt the power of the bond between Enkidu and me from the first time you read of it. You cried for it. I remember. You know how I felt about him, don't you?"
"Enkidu?"
He squeezed his eyes, but a tear slipped through anyway. "The brother of my soul," he muttered in Sumerian. Amazingly, she knew what he said. She heard the words pass from his mind to hers and the meaning was clear. "As much as I loved him. Shannon, I love you even more. How could I watch you die? How could I, when I had the power to save you? It was wrong. I know that. I knew it then. But Shannon, I had to do it. I'd do it again."
His arms tightened around her, almost reflexively, she sensed, as if he were reliving that moment when he'd chosen to cling to her--to do whatever he had to--to keep her with him. Her eyes should have been wide with wonder at this new knowledge of him, this new understanding. But instead they were heavy, lids dropping, sleep claiming her. She snuggled close to him, twisting her arms around his waist, not wan ting him to keep his promise and sleep on the floor. She pressed her face into the crook of his neck, and she smelled his scent and tasted the salt of his flesh on her lips as she whispered, "Gilgamesh..."
And then she fell asleep, thinking of the lines she'd read in the epic, lines that returned to haunt her. Lines about grief:
It could go on for years and years,
and has, for centuries...
It yearns and waits to be retouched,
by someone who can take away
the memory of death.
He was gone when she awoke. She sat up slowly, blinking, realizing vaguely that the lights were still dim. They brightened gradually. The music began as if by itself, and only grew louder as she came fully alert.
"Quite a setup he has here, isn't it?"
She started, eyes flying wider. A woman stood in the room near the doorway. She was small, a pixie, with a tiny waist and cascades of raven curls that reached it. She smiled and took a step forward.
"I'm Tamara."
She'd heard the name, she was sure. She frowned. Tamara. Then she was real. "Eric's wife?"
"Well, not 'wife' exactly. We didn't do a church wedding or anything. 'Till death us do part' would be kind of meaningless for us. But our vows are just as binding. No, more binding." She strode to the stereo system in the back of the room, started pawing through the CDs.
She wore snug-fitting jeans and a green silk button-down blouse. A pair of shiny black flats on her feet. Even makeup. Shannon stared, gaping, until the woman turned and smiled at her. "I know I don't look like a vampire, do I? Rhiannon does. She's all tall and elegant and has this haughty attitude. But I think she was like that, even mortal. She's a princess, you know. And I'm just... just me."
"I didn't mean to stare."
Tamara came forward, sat on the edge of the bed. "I've only been in darkness for a few years. Shannon. I know what you're going through." She lowered her dark, velvety lashes. "Well, sort of. In my case, I had to practically beg Eric to bring me over. I can't say for sure how I'd have dealt with it if he'd just done it, without asking how I felt first."
Shannon licked her lips. "I still didn't believe you existed. The next thing I know, I wake up and I'm one of you."
Tamara nodded, meeting Shannon's eyes with real concern in her own. "It's a tough adjustment under any circumstances. But I'll help you, if you want." She smiled a little, and her hand rose to touch Shannon's hair. "You're beautiful, you know. I've never heard of a fair-complected vampire before. You must be as rare as a flawless diamond."
Shannon felt herself blush at the compliment.
"It's probably because of the lineage. I think the darkness is inherited, along with the Belladonna antigen."
Shannon took that in, nodding. Then she glanced toward the door and gnawed on her lower lip.
"He and Eric went out to see if they could find this rogue vampire that's been raising hell around here."
She nodded again. She wished Damien hadn't left before she'd awoken. She'd hurt him. He thought she wanted to be away from him. That wasn't at all what she wanted. She wasn't sure exactly what she wanted anymore, only that she understood now. She understood his pain, his loss. She'd been half in love with Gilgamesh since she'd read his epic. And now she knew why. And she knew why he'd made the decision he had when she'd been dying in his arms. Being who he was, he couldn't have done anything else.
"You'll have time to tell him all that. He'll be back before dawn."
She blinked in surprise.
"We can hear each other's thoughts. Shannon."
"That's incredible."
Tamara smiled. I'll teach you how to do it. You can surprise Damien when he gets back. For now, why don't you get up and shower and dress? There's so much I want to tell you about, show you....
All of it, Shannon heard clearly. All of it spoken without Tamara's having uttered a sound. Her head spinning. Shannon got up and complied.
* * * * *
Tamara seemed so normal.
She'd been thrilled to ride in Shannon's car, more thrilled yet when Shannon let her drive it awhile. They took turns choosing CDs and they played them at ear-piercing volume, singing along until Shannon actually began to feel like herself again. Maybe Damien was right. Maybe she hadn't changed all that much.
They parked the car, then walked through the streets. As they did, Tamara urged Shannon to practice the telepathy, and soon they were conversing almost totally in silence. Shannon started attempting to read other people's thoughts as they passed. The results were often hilarious.
Then, in a trash-littered, abandoned alley, Tamara stood by Shannon's side. "Let's race to the other end."
A shiver of apprehension skittered over Shannon's nape. "This isn't a very good place to hang out, Tamara."
"Think about it," she said. "Who's gonna bother us?"
Shannon smiled. She was right.
"You've got a lot of strength now. Shannon. And speed. You won't believe it. Be careful not to hit the wall on the other side. Pain hurts more now than before."
"I'd noticed that."
"On three," Tamara said, and then counted mentally.
They were off like bullets from a gun, and Shannon would have collided with the wall if Tamara hadn't caught her arm and brought her to a skidding stop.
For hours Tamara helped Shannon to explore her new self. And as time flew past. Shannon began to think this wasn't so bad after all. She could jump from the top of a tree and land on her feet. She could see in the dark. All her senses were honed to razor sharpness. She was strong, energized. And she could read minds.
"You think that's incredible, just wait until you... you know." Tamara's pale cheeks pinkened.
"No, I don't know. Wait until I what?"
Tamara grinned and tilted her head to one side. "You and Damien... you know..."
"Oh." Shannon bit her lip. "Is it... different?"
"Way different."
Shannon licked her lips. "I don't know when I'll find out. Things aren't exactly... right between us."
"You love him, don't you?"
She thought about that, and found herself nodding emphatically. "I do. I really do. I lost sight of it for a while, a really short, confused while. But I never stopped."
"Well, he's nuts about you. You'll work things out."
Shannon nodded, recalling his words to her before she'd fallen asleep this morning. He'd said he loved her even more than Enkidu. It awed her that he could feel that strongly about her.
They walked back to the car, only to meet a stranger there. A vampire. Surprising that she knew it at a glance, but she did, and she stopped short. He was tall, and almost emaciated. So slender. In his long face every bone was visible. His neck was like a reed, his shoulders pointy and hard.
He approached them slowly, and Tamara caught her breath, gripping Shannon's arm.
"No use," he said, and his voice reminded Shannon of a cobra's hiss. "I'm six thousand years old. You're a toddler and a Newborn. Don't bother running."
And in the blink of an eye, he had them, his bony arms anchored around their waists, capturing their arms at their sides. Shannon struggled. She knew Tamara did, as well, but couldn't see her. He'd taken off at such incredible speed that everything was a blur. She thought they were airborne, but couldn't be sure. Tamara hadn't told her anything about flight.
Don't call out to Eric and Damien. Tamara's thoughts echoed in Shannon's ears. It could be a trap for them. I've been through it before.
"No matter," the monster who held them rasped. "I've left a note at the house for them. It's long past time for Gilgamesh to meet his fate."