Twilight Fulfilled

He could not doubt them. He had to do as they decreed. He would not defy them again, for the suffering he had known for doing so once—just once—had been beyond human endurance. Should he cross them again, he could not even imagine what punishments might await him.

And so it was that he eased himself from the embrace of the sleeping female and rose carefully to his feet. For a moment he stood looking down at her as she slept, one hand pressed to his belly, where the skin was burned to black. Her hair was the color of sunlight. Pale yellow gold, and there were leaves of green and gold clinging to its curls. Her eyes, closed now, were the most unusual eyes he had ever seen. His people, all he had known, had eyes the color of onyx stone. Black eyes, to match their hair and their brows. But Brigit—she had eyes like the eyes of Enlil, the God of Air and Sky. Palest blue, with rims of black outlining the color. Her eyes seemed as if they could see through him.

Wise, she was.

Perhaps her words ought to be heeded.

No. She was woman, working on his resolve as only a woman could do. He tore himself away and began trekking through the forest. He needed to distance himself from the beautiful warrioress Brigit, because when near her, he could sense nothing else. Even his pain faded beneath the onslaught of that which was her. Her scent, her vitality. With distance, he would once again be able to home in on the essence of the surviving vahmpeers and resume his pursuit of them.

He hated the task that lay before him. He resented the gods for putting it upon him. And yet he dared not refuse.

Miles later, though, it was still Brigit he felt even as he emerged from the forest onto a road. She had filled his senses, leaving room for nothing else. He was in terrible condition. His clothing, the white robe James had called “toga” was filthy. Dry now, at least. But filthy. His body likewise.

He paused then, beside the road, and tipped his head up to the heavens. “I have no offering to proffer,” he said in his own tongue. The new one still felt awkward to him, despite his ability to learn facts by touching objects. “Yet I beg of you, ancient and mighty ones—take this task from me. Allow my offspring to live. Free me of this curse. Surely I have suffered long enough.”

He closed his eyes and waited for a sign. When none came, he sighed, resolved, and tried again. “If you will not relieve me of this mission, then at least provide me with the means to achieve it. I require shelter. Clothing. Food.”

Again he closed his eyes, and waited.

He did not have to wait long. One of the humans’ mechanized carts rolled to a stop beside him, and even as he stood there watching, a man got out. He was tall and very lean, and his eyes were the color of pale stone. He bore a battle scar upon his face that spoke of power. Utana recognized the man—had met him once before. The man emerged from the cart—car, Utana corrected himself mentally—and stood facing him.

As Utana stared at the man, preparing himself to blast him should he move aggressively, the newcomer dropped to one knee, genuflecting, lowered his head and said, “Oh, great and mighty King Ziasudra. It is indeed an honor to kneel before you.”

Utana felt his brows lift. The rush of pleasure at hearing his old name, even spoken in such a terrible accent, and at being addressed as was befitting a king, was tinged by doubt and suspicion.

But he withheld judgment, watchful and wary. “Rise, mortal, and tell me what you want of me.”

The scar-faced man lifted his head but did not rise. “Better to ask what you want of me. Do you remember me, my lord?”

“You were held captive by Brigit of the Vahmpeers. You were among those she called … vi-gi-lants.”

“Vigilantes, yes. And it was you who set me free. You saved my life, my king. And now I can finally repay that debt. If you will allow it.”

Utana shrugged. “What do you want of me?”

“You are the Ancient One, the flood survivor, Utanapishtim, are you not? The first immortal? Beloved of the gods?”

Utana narrowed his eyes on the human. “I am. But that does not tell me who you are, nor how you know these things that few mortals of your time know.”

“My name is Nash Gravenham-Bail,” the man said. “I have been awaiting your coming, which was foretold to the leaders of my nation. I am a powerful man within my government, my king. But as of right now, I am your servant, sent to tend to you on behalf of my president.”

Utana frowned. The leaders of this world knew of his resurrection? “I know not … pres-ee-dent.”

“It’s our word for king.”

“Ah.” Then the king of this land knew of him, as well?

“Will you come with me?” the man went on, still down on one knee. “I have a house for you. Food. Clothing. All you require and more.”

“Why?” Utana asked. “Why wish you … to help me, human?”

The man lowered his eyes. “I don’t blame you for being suspicious of me, my friend. The truth is, my president and I have no love for the vampires you’ve come to destroy. He wishes to honor you as is befitting a ruler, even one from another time.”

“And you?” Utana asked.

The man bowed his head. “I, too, believe in the old gods, the Anunaki. Enki, Enlil, the great Anu, the fierce Inanna. I, too, wish to do their will, to solicit their blessings in this world where few even know their names. Helping you will give me a way to please them. I believe it is what they want of me.” He licked his lips, perhaps nervously. “And as I’ve already said, you saved my life when you freed me from the vampires. And I am deeply grateful for that.”

At last, Utana thought. Something he could understand, something he could relate to. And yet, he must be cautious. This world was not his own, and this human, though they had met before, was still a stranger to him.

He would go with this man, but he would exercise extreme wariness and care. But he was wise and powerful enough, he thought, to risk it. And the rewards of food, of shelter, of a base from which to work while he healed from the painful wound delivered by the lovely warrior woman Brigit, were far too tempting to resist.

“Be it so,” he said to the man. “My vizier, you shall be. Rise, Nashmun,” he went on, giving the man a name he preferred, “and serve me well.” As the man stood upright again, Utana leaned close. He stared intently into the human’s cold gray eyes. “Betray me not, Nashmun. My wrath knows no mercy.”

4

Near Washington, D.C.

At 7:00 a.m., in a truck stop not known for safety, Roxy, wearing a black pageboy wig and large round glasses, along with skintight leggings, a leather jacket and matching boots, sat at a table in the back and waited. She looked like Velma from Scooby-Doo, if Velma had joined a biker gang. The senator came in, looking nervous as hell, and as out of place as a goldfish in a barracuda tank. She clicked through the place in her sensible two-inch navy blue pumps that matched her blazer that matched her skirt, looking around in the most obvious manner possible.

“Shit,” Roxy muttered. She quickly got up and made her way past the crowd of patrons, mostly large men and a few large women, talking loudly, chugging coffee and eating meals big enough to feed a small third-world village. She gripped the senator by the forearm and leaned in close. “Could you be more obvious?”

With a sharp look her way, the senator frowned. “Are you—”

“Endora,” Roxy said. She’d had to pick a phony name when she’d emailed the senator, and her favorite TV witch had seemed like a good enough choice. “We need to make this fast.”

“I’m all for that.”

“Did you tell anyone you were coming here?”

“Yes.”

Roxy stopped walking, sent her a look.

“My private security guy, the guy who screens my email. And no one else. I wasn’t going to come here alone.”

Roxy glanced toward the entry, a big glass door.

“He took the limo around back, but I can get him back here fast if needed.”

“Gave you a panic button, did he?”

The senator averted her eyes. “Your message said this was about my new committee post. That you have information I need. What is it?”

She was a pretty thing, Roxy thought. And she had that idealistic fire in her eyes she’d glimpsed before in young politicians. Before they’d been around long enough to have it extinguished by the good ol’ boys who wanted to keep the status quo.

“This way.”

The two made their way to the table in the back, and Roxy slid into her chair and shoved a mug of coffee across the table. “I ordered for you.”