Amber paced the cagelike room. Eventually the scarred man came to the barred door and peered in at her. "Hello, Amber. Sorry about the accommodations." He shoved her backpack through the bars for her. "We did bring your things along. Minus the phone, of course. We have to be careful with your kind."
"You're damn right you do." She searched the hallway beyond him for something to hurl, spotted a painting on the wall behind him and sent it flying at his head.
He spun around, flinging up his arms, so it hit them instead, but the way he cursed told her it hurt like hell. Good.
"You let me out of here, mister, or you're going to be very sorry."
"You will cooperate with us, my dear, or else you are the one who'll be sorry. Now stick your arm through the bars. We need another little blood sample."
Amber told him to go do something anatomically impossible, in language that would have made her mother cringe, and then she hurled her energy at the light fixture above his head. It crashed to the floor, and the man barely got out of the way in time. They'd done something to her while she'd been unconscious. She didn't know what; she only knew she felt awful. Her head pounded, her muscles ached, and her chest felt odd.
"I'll tear this place apart!" she shouted as things from the room flew against the bars. Lamps, curtains, the bedside clock.
Stiles cowered away for a moment, but then a second man appeared, pulled a gun from his waistband, pointed it even as she dove for cover and pulled the trigger.
The dart jabbed her in the lower back, and once again the drug worked almost instantly.
"Dammit!" Stiles said. "The last dose had her blood pressure so low we can't be certain of the accuracy of the experiments. I told you, no more. We need her alive and in her normal state to learn anything useful."
"This was half as much," the other man said. "What are we gonna do, let her trash the place?"
Amber sank to the floor, fear gripping her mind, panic taking hold. She had no control over what they did to her while she was unconscious. When she woke up the last time, there had been bandages and sore spots on her arms and legs, and she wasn't sure, but she thought they'd cut off some of her hair, as well, and that was only part of it. She was sure there was more. She'd never felt so horrible in her life.
She clung to consciousness as they unlocked the barred door and came in. Stiles bent to scoop her up, She tried to fling things at him with her mind, but the objects only tipped over and fell to the floor. She tried to hit him and found her blows as weak as Alicia's would have been.
He put her on the bed, turned to his cohort. "Bring the equipment in. Let's get this over with before it wears off again."
Her eyes widened. "No, please," she whispered.
Stiles smiled at her. "Now it's 'please,' is it? I thought I was going to be sorry?"
The rattling of a tray drew her gaze. The woman wheeled it in. It was stainless steel and loaded with instruments, including an electronic box with the kind of paddles they used to jump-start heart patients on ER. Stiles pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and picked up a tiny, shiny scalpel.
She focused on the blade, fear giving her effort one final burst of power. The blade leaped from the man's hand, spun around and drove into his palm, piercing it straight through.
He howled in pain.
"Sorry yet?" she managed to ask as the others crowded around him.
"What are we going to do with her, Stiles?" the woman asked. "Some of the tests require her to be conscious and cooperative at the same time."
Through grated teeth he spoke to her. "We'll have her full cooperation soon enough. I expect her parents anytime now."
And then the drug took over, plunging her into darkness.
Rhiannon drove her Mercedes, Roland in the front seat beside her, sitting stiffly, eyes constantly alert. To this day he had never made peace with moving vehicles. He suffered them, when necessary, or to keep her happy. He did not enjoy them.
Rhiannon loved her cars. Almost as much as she loved her aging cat. A little pang of longing hit her as they passed the exit for the town where Pandora was being boarded. But there was just no time to stop and pick up her pet. Not when precious Amber was in the hands of those bastards.
As they drew nearer, she kept glancing over her shoulder at Angelica in the back seat with Jameson. So far there was no sign the woman sensed her daughter's nearness. It worried Rhiannon.
Eventually she drove the car over winding side roads, through the wooded Connecticut countryside, toward the one-time home of Eric Marquand, Roland's dearest friend. It had been burned, ransacked, vandalized and ravaged by the whims of the sea and her storms, and their enemies, over the years. Eric and his bride Tamara had had to abandon it once the DPI had learned of its existence. Vampires who had been unfortunate enough to attract the notice of that band of vampire hunters never managed to stay in one place for very long. Rhiannon had hoped that would end once the DPI was destroyed. But obviously those hopes had been misplaced.
She pulled the car off the road, into a lot with tall pine trees lining it, the better to keep it from view. The four of them got out and began walking along the needle-cushioned road. Pine scent was strong on the air. In a few more minutes, the house came into view.
The wrought-iron fence around the place, with its patterns of leaves and twisting vines, was still intact. The gate of the same pattern had been sagging the last time Rhiannon had set eyes on it. Now it was straight and level, and looked as strong as ever.
She looked beyond it at the house, three stories of rough-hewn gray stone blocks, each one enormous in size. Its arched windows were sunken deeply into the stone. Rhiannon glanced at Jameson, saw him staring at the place intently.
"Are you all right, Jamey?" Roland asked, slipping into the old habit of calling him by his childish name.
Jameson swallowed. "It brings back memories. Not all of them good."
"You were eleven, I believe," Roland said, "when you squared off against a murderous grown man and saved my life, right here in this house."
"A few days later you returned the favor," Jameson said.
The two men exchanged a long look. They were as close as father and son, Rhiannon knew that. And even though the younger one sometimes drove her to madness with his impatience and impulsiveness, she loved him all the same.
There were spikes at the top of the fence that surrounded the place, and cliffs at the back that plummeted to the rocky shore far below. Not really a challenge for a vampire. She crouched low, then pushed off hard, clearing the fence easily. The others followed suit, and then they started up the cobblestone path to the front of the house. It had been years. The grounds hadn't been as thoroughly reclaimed as the gate and the house itself. Shrubs, once trimmed, now spread like wild things. The long-dead, thorny stalks of the roses spread over the ground, suffocating the tender new shoots that attempted to spring up in their midst. Scrub brush and weeds had been allowed to run rampant, and only the path itself remained clean and clear of debris.
"I still don't get a sense of Amber," Angelica whispered.
"Maybe she's asleep," Jameson said. Or unconscious. He didn't shield the thought fast enough. Rhiannon and the others heard it clearly.
"Or maybe she's not here at all," Rhiannon said quickly, seeing the flush of fear in Angelica's cheeks.
She stopped before they reached the front door, holding her arms out to her sides to halt the others as something tickled at the back of her mind. "What in the world..." And then the knowledge came, with a jolt of alarm. Danger shot through her mind like an electrical current. "It's a trap!" she shouted, even as the brush around them came alive with movement.
They whirled and ran flat out for the fence, even as blinding lights flashed on, glaring down on them from all directions, and men emerged from the shadows, firing automatic weapons.
When she reached the fence, Rhiannon leaped it, hitting the ground on the other side and running for the car. It was only a few steps before she realized that she was alone.
Roland! She shouted his name with her mind.
His reply came to her, weak but clear. Too late, love. They've got us. Go! Get clear, get help, and come back.
I won't be long!
Just be safe.
She dove into the car, and pressed the accelerator to the floor, squealing away into the rapidly fading night.
Get help, he'd told her. From where? Eric and Tamara were too far away to be of any use. And the only vampire she knew of who was close enough to be of any help was the one she blamed for causing this mess in the first place; the reclusive vampiress, Sarafina.
Perhaps the mortal, Willem Stone, could be of some help, as well, if he were still alive. Jameson seemed to have placed a great deal of store in the man's abilities. But she had no way to locate Stone- except through Sarafina.
And so, she supposed, that was where she must go.
She could have attempted to contact the woman mentally, but that might only give her enough warning to get away. And Rhiannon had no intention of allowing that. She pushed the car to its limits, but before she ever reached the city, the bloodred curve of the sun began to peer over the distant horizon, blasting through the darkly tinted windshield, searing her eyes, her face.
She jerked down the visor and pushed on, but soon there was smoke rolling from her hair. The delicate skin over her throat and collarbones began to blister. She was out of time. She jerked the wheel, taking the car off the exit ramp, only then realizing it was the same one that led to the ranch where Pandora was currently vacationing.
Heat, light, pain, all combined to make her grate her teeth. The steering wheel was so hot she could barely hold on to it. Her vision was filtered by a red haze. She careened onto a side road, shot down it a few hundred yards, then veered off the side, bouncing the car over a rough, grassy field and toward the woodlot beyond it. She stopped at the line of scraggly trees, then wrenched open the door. Some of the skin from her palm stayed on the door handle when she pulled her hand away and lunged out of the car, and into the trees.
Her strength was ebbing. The day-sleep was irresistibly stealing over her, but if she stopped in the sunlight, she knew she would never wake again. She pushed on, skin sizzling, mind slowly fogging over. Finally she reached a mucky bit of green-water swamp and flung herself into it.
Cool, soothing water, thick with algae and slime, wrapped around her and eased her pain. As her body sank into the soft, blessedly cold mud at the bottom, the murky ooze closed above her, blocking out the killing rays of the sun.
Sarafina remained in the lush, well-tended gardens, out of sight of anyone, until the uncharacteristic emotional thunderstorm had passed. She didn't want to see Willem. She didn't want to see anyone. The garden was her haven, and she remained there for the night, as if it could heal her. She couldn't recall the last time she'd shed tears. Had she cried at Dante's betrayal? If she had, it hadn't been like this. Nothing close to this.
She felt-and this was baffling to her-regret for having conquered Willem Stone's spirit. She'd never experienced any hint of remorse for having made drones of Misty or Edward. But with Willem, everything was different. Even though he had been hunting those two girls, there remained something special about him. Something unique among mortal men. And she had robbed him of that. Taken away his iron will, made him less than he had been before. Less than the man she had loved. She wished to God she hadn't done it, not to a man like him. Better to have killed him outright than to make him live that way. And while it wasn't too late to remedy that mistake, to free his spirit by taking his life, she also knew she couldn't do it. It infuriated her to find herself emotionally hobbled by her ridiculous feelings for a man. And a mortal, at that!
Wrestling with unaccustomed emotions had drained her. She dragged herself up the back steps and into the house through the rear entrance, hoping not to encounter anyone on the way to her bedroom. Dawn was close at hand. Perhaps the day-sleep would restore her to her old self, the woman with the heart encased in impenetrable ice. The woman she had been before Willem Stone.
But her path to rest was interrupted by the voices of Edward and Misty. They were speaking in excited tones somewhere in the house, and her gut told her something was very wrong. She altered her course, bursting in on them in the upstairs hallway.
"What's the matter?" she demanded.
Misty spun, eyes wide and damp. "Oh, my lady, you must forgive us! He fooled us as surely as he fooled you!" She fell to her knees, gripping the hem of Sarafina's robe.
"What are you talking about?" she demanded.
Misty only sobbed harder, so Sarafina looked to Edward, who stood uneasily in front of her. "He's run away, mistress. We left him unbound, the door unlocked, as you told us. We assumed he was as loyal to you as we are. But he fooled us all. He's gone."
"He's gone...." Sarafina blinked, glancing past Edward at the open door to what had been Willem's room. She wondered briefly why she wasn't flooded with rage at his deception, his escape. Instead she felt an odd sense of relief. She hadn't broken him at all. He'd only been pretending. She wanted to close her eyes and weep with gratitude.
And his declarations of love? His enthusiastic kisses? Those had all been a part of his act. They were no more authentic than they would have been had she succeeded in conquering his mind. But God, she was glad she'd failed. She didn't want Willem Stone broken, she realized. But she did want him, still. Despite his black heart.
"Leave it be," she told her servants. "He was never meant to stay with us." She felt the touch of the dawn working harder than usual on her in her state of mental exhaustion. "His wallet and some of his things are in the desk drawer, in the library. His home address and several telephone numbers are in them. See that they're sent to him today. I'm going to rest. Think no more about Willem Stone."
"Well, good morning, Amber Lily," said the bleached-blond female vampire hunter. Amber hadn't slept. She was sitting up in her bed, watching the sun rise over the ocean, and she refused even to turn and face the woman. Her body felt ravaged, and she didn't know why. This last time, when she woke up, her hair had been wet and her throat sore.
"We've brought you two choices for breakfast. A pint of A-positive, freshly drawn. Still warm, even. And some bacon and eggs. Which would you prefer?"
Narrowing her eyes, Amber turned and glared at the woman. "Your heart on a platter. Lightly roasted."
The woman didn't seem to pick up on the sarcasm. Her eyes widened a little, and she handed the tray to the man who stood beside her, then yanked a notebook from her pocket to jot down a note.
Amber rolled her eyes. "Yes, do write that down, Miz Einstein. 'Patient shows cannibalistic tendencies.' But you'd better get me someone's liver soon, or I'll turn invisible." She nodded toward the man behind her. "His will do. You can use the butter knife there. And I like it with onions. Hurry up, now."
Finally light dawned in the twit's eyes. She stopped writing, looked up slowly from her notebook. "You're playing games again."
"Gee, do you think?"
The woman angrily scratched out what she had written down. "I'll take an honest answer this time, Amber Lily. Which of these two meals represents your normal diet?" She pocketed her notepad and took the jar of blood from the tray. "Do you drink blood like your parents?''
Amber glanced at the jar, sent her anger full throttle. It exploded, spewing blood and glass shards at the woman's chest and face, hands and arms. She shrieked, back-stepping fast, flinging her hands to her face.
"Kelsey!" The man dropped the tray of food to the floor and went to her. "God, are you all right?"
She turned and ran off in search of a towel, with her attentive sidekick right on her heels. Stiles came walking down the hall, clapping his hands very slowly. "Well done, child. Very well done. But I'm afraid we've run out of patience with you and your little tantrums."
"Guess you'd better let me go, then, because you're only going to get more of the same."
"Oh, I don't think so." He stood in front of her cell, arms folded over his chest, a confident smirk on the good side of his face. "You're going to cooperate from here on in. Answer all our questions truthfully and submit to any tests we care to perform."
"Oh, really?" she said. "And why the hell would I do that?"
"Nelson, bring her here," he called to someone, never taking his eyes off Amber.
Footsteps came, slow and measured. And then a man appeared in the hallway, carrying what looked like a body in his arms. It was wrapped in a blanket, head to toe. Amber's heart jumped into her throat.
"Close the curtain," Stiles said. "I wouldn't want a stray sunray to hit her. We've already established that they have no effect on you, contrary to what you led us to believe."
Blinking rapidly, Amber closed the thick curtains.
Stiles walked up to the man holding the body, peeled away the blanket.
Amber sucked in a gasp and lunged for the bars. "Mom!" She stretched her arm through the bars, touched her mother's face, felt the life in her through that mental bond they had. Not dead. They hadn't killed her. Not yet, anyway. She stroked her mother's hair as tears flooded her eyes.
"Please," she whispered. "Please, don't hurt her. I'll do anything. Anything you want, just don't hurt her."
Stiles nodded. "I thought so. Now, we're going to have a little talk, you and I. You're going to tell me everything about yourself. What you eat. When you sleep. How sunlight affects you, if at all. And anything else I want to know, is that understood?"
She nodded, even as Nelson put the blanket over her mother's face and carried her away down the hall.
"Where is he taking her? Where are you keeping her?"
"Oh, not just her, child. We have your daddy, too. And his pal Roland."
She closed her eyes, weeping. "I'll cooperate, I promise. Just, please, I have to know where you're keeping them."
"In a cell, in a sublevel, underneath the basement here. It was created by a vampire, I'm told. His safe haven. Ironic, isn't it?"
She swallowed hard. "Is it...is it small?"
He frowned, making the scarred side of his face pucker and pull. "The size of this room, or thereabouts. Why do you ask?"
She tried to control her breath, not to release the sigh of relief she felt at knowing her mother was not confined in some tiny, cramped space. "I just-I want to know they're comfortable. As long as I know they're all right, I'll be the most cooperative subject you could wish for. I promise."
"Fair enough," he said.
Amber nodded and sank onto the bed in the shadowy room, dimmed now by the drawn curtains. "So what do you want to know?"