Maggie Shayne - Twilight Fulfilled (Children of Twilight)

Praise for the novels of
MAGGIE SHAYNE

Shayne crafts a convincing world, tweaking vampire legends just enough to draw fresh blood.

Publishers Weekly on Demons Kiss

Maggie Shayne demonstrates an absolutely superb touch, blending fantasy and romance into an outstanding reading experience.

RT Book Reviews on Embrace the Twilight

Maggie Shayne is better than chocolate. She satisfies every wicked craving.

New York Times bestselling author Suzanne Forster

Maggie Shayne delivers sheer delight, and fans new and old of her vampire series can rejoice.

RT Book Reviews on Twilight Hunger

Maggie Shayne delivers romance with sweeping intensity and bewitching passion.

New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz

Also by Maggie Shayne

Children of Twilight

TWILIGHT PROPHECY

Wings in the Night

VACATION WITH A VAMPIREAND OTHER IMMORTALS:

Vampires in Paradise PRINCE OF TWILIGHT

BLUE TWILIGHT

Before Blue Twilight EDGE OF TWILIGHT

Run From Twilight EMBRACE THE TWILIGHT

TWILIGHT HUNGER

Twilight Vows BORN IN TWILIGHT

BEYOND TWILIGHT

TWILIGHT ILLUSIONS

TWILIGHT MEMORIES

TWILIGHT PHANTASIES

BLOODLINE

ANGELS PAIN

LOVERS BITE

DEMONS KISS

DARKER THAN MIDNIGHT

COLDER THAN ICE

THICKER THAN WATER

Secrets of Shadow Falls

KISS ME, KILL ME

KILL ME AGAIN

KILLING ME SOFTLY

MAGGIE SHAYNE

Twilight Fulfilled

To my editor, Leslie Wainger, who has been with this series from its birth. With this book, Wings in the Night is eighteen years old, and twenty novels, novellas and an online read long, but it never would have survived toddlerhood, nor grown into the body of work that it has become, without the steadfast support, wise guidance, and true love of its co-mommy.

Thank you will never suffice, but Ill say it anyway.
Thank you, Leslie, with all my heart.
Maggie

Well, I suppose I am forced to admit, the above gooeyness goes for me, too, though my version will be far more dignified and lessdrippy. Still, it is undeniably true that Leslie Waingers guidance had been invaluable. Except, of course, for those rare occasions when she cut or shortened my scenes. Still, no one is perfect. And she really is a wise and wonderful woman.
For a mortal. So, thank you from me, as well, dear Leslie. You are one of those rare humans that I can honestly call friend.
Rhiannon

Contents

Coastal Maine

I t was the blackest, rainiest night the forgotten and overgrown cemetery had seen in centuries. Ancient tombstones leaned drunkenly beneath the bones of dead-looking trees, while gnarled limbs shivered in the cold. Arthritic twig-fingers scratched the tallest of the old stone monuments like old, yellow fingernails on slate. And the surviving vampires huddled together around an open, muddy grave.

Brigit Poe, part vampire, part human, and one of the only two of her kind, was dressed for battle, not for a funeral. It was only coincidence that she wore entirely black. That breathable second-skin fabric favored by runners covered her body from ankles to waist like a surgical glove. Over the leggings, she wore tall black boots, with buckles all the way up to her knees. The chunky four-inch heels provided extra height, an advantage in battle. And the weight of them would add more potency to a kick. Her black slicker looked as if shed lifted it straight from the back of a cowboy actor in an old spaghetti western. It was long and heavy, with a caped back, but it did more than keep the rain away. Its dense fabric would help deflect a blade.

She could have wished for a hood. She could have wished for a lot of things, topmost among them: for the task she faced to fall to anyone other than her. But that wasnt going to happen.

As she stood there, watching each vampire move forward to pour ashes into the muddy hole, her twin brother walked up to her and plunked a black cowboy hat onto her dripping-wet blond curls. She had, shed been told, hair like Goldilocks, the face of an angel, the heart of a demonand the power of Satan himself.

Black hat, she thought. It figured. In that spaghetti Western shed been envisioning, she definitely would have worn a black hat. Her brother would have worn a white one. He was the good guy. The hero.

Not her.

Its not going to be easy, he told her. Hunting him down. Killing him.

No shit. Hes five thousand years old and more powerful than any of us.

Not exactly what I meant, sis. Jamesknown to her as J.W. despite his constant protestslooked her dead in the eyes. She pretended not to know what he was looking for, even though she did. Decency. Morality. Some sign that she was struggling with the ethics of the decision that had been madethat she must find and execute the ancient one who had started the vampire race.

Only days earlier, her brother had located and resurrected the first immortal, the ancient Sumerian king known as the Flood Survivor. He was the original Noah, from a tale far older than the Biblical version. His name was Ziasudra in Sumerian, Utanapishtim in Babylonian.

A prophecy, the same prophecy that had foretold the war now raging between vampires and the humans who had finally learned of their existence, had also said that the Ancient One, the first immortal, the man from whom the entire vampire race had descended, was their only hope of survival.

Or at least, that was what they had thought it said. Turned out, their ancestor was actually the means of their destruction. Still believing the Ancient One was their salvation, J.W. had used his healing power to raise Utana from the ashes. And the man had returned to life with his mind corrupted by thousands of years spent trapped, conscious, his soul bound to his ashes.

Believing hed been cursed by the gods for sharing his gift of immortality and inadvertently creating the vampire race, hed set out to destroy them all. One look beaming from his eyes, and they were annihilated. Hed killed many vampires already.

Human vigilantes had killed even more.

The end of their kind, it seemed, was at hand.

Unless she could stop Utana from his self-appointed mission.

What I meant, her brother went on, was that killing someone who cant truly die, knowing that all youre really doing is sentencing him to spend eternity, virtually buried alive

Are you trying to tweak my conscience, J.W.? she asked, irritated. It wont work. I dont have one. Never have. That bastards killed hundreds of my kind. Our kind. Ive got no problem taking him out before he can eliminate the rest of us. No problem whatsoever.

Someone cleared his throat, and she looked toward the open grave again. Thirteen survivors of the recent annihilation had scooped up the dust of their beloved dead and brought the remains here, to this abandoned and long-forgotten cemetery in the wilds of Maine.

Those gathered included ten vampires: Eric and Tamara, Rhiannon and Roland, Jameson and Angelica, Edge and Amber Lily, Sarafina and the newly turned Lucy. In addition, there was Sarafinas mortal mate, Willem Stone, and the mongrel twins, Brigit herself and her brother, J.W. The supposed only hope for the dark half of their family.

Rhiannon, their unofficial aunt, her long, slit-to-the-thigh gown dragging in the mud at her uncharacteristically bare feet, poured the final jar of ashes into the hole, threw the jar in after them, then tipped her head back and opened her arms to the skies. The rain poured down on the pale skin of her breasts, almost completely exposed by the plunging neckline of her bloodred gown. Her long black hair hung in wet straggles, and her eyeliner was running down her cheeks, mixed with rainwater and tears. She was not herself.