Born in Twilight: Twilight Vows

by Maggie Shayne

  Jameson touched my shoulder, and all my pride left me in a rush. I spun around to face him, falling to my knees and gripping his hands in mine, not caring that I knelt at the feet of a demon. Lowering my head to hide my tears did nothing to keep the sobs from breaking my words into fragmented bits. “I…beg of y-you…” I said, choking on the words. “Do not put me into that box. Please…”

  * * *

  Jameson’s heart tripped to a stop as he saw what his thoughtlessness had reduced this fierce woman to. Kneeling on the floor, clutching his hands and shaking. She was cold as ice. Damn. How could he have been so cruel as to forget where he’d found her? Sealed in a tiny box and left there for God only knew how long. Left there to die.

  He bent down, closing his hands around her small waist and lifting her until she stood again. When he tilted up her chin, he saw the tears staining her cheeks, and he swore. “Jesus, Angel, of course not. I wasn’t thinking….” Keeping one arm anchored around her waist, he moved her out of that room as quickly as possible. She was still shaking like a frightened rabbit. “No,” he told her. “God, you truly do think I’m a monster, don’t you? You honestly thought I’d force you into one of those coffins, seal you inside the way those bastards at DPI did? How could you think that?”

  She closed her eyes, and he could see her battling the panic that had overwhelmed her, fighting for control. “What else would I think? You said I was your prisoner. You said you’d keep me here until we found her.”

  “I was thinking of our safety. Eric has those coffins equipped with all sorts of…never mind, it doesn’t matter. I should have thought before I ushered you in there. I didn’t mean to frighten you like that.”

  He turned, crossing the first room again to open a door on the opposite side. And this time he entered first, leaving her to follow at her own pace. He went to the nightstand and bent to light an oil lamp. They didn’t need it to see by, but he thought the amber glow made things seem warmer. Less frightening.

  She came in, slowly, warily. God, she mistrusted him. He stood where he was and watched her examine the very normal-looking bedroom. A huge canopy bed held state like a royal personage. Rhiannon’s doing, of course. She preferred luxury to caution. Always had.

  “Is this more to your liking?” he asked.

  She stepped farther inside, turning her head, taking in her surroundings.

  “Look,” he said, pointing. “The bathroom is through there.”

  She looked, nodded, but her glance returned to the bed. When her violet gaze had first fallen there, it had seemed to Jameson that her muscles relaxed a bit. She sniffed and brushed at her eyes.

  Her breath escaped her in a trembling sigh as she closed her eyes. “Yes,” she breathed at last. “This is much better.”

  Jameson stepped away from the bed, shaking his head in puzzlement as she came forward, tugged the plump satin comforter down and nodded in approval at the way the bed looked.

  “You’d better feed now, Angelica,” he said, his voice taking on the tone of a parent instructing an innocent child. “Dawn is only a short while away, and you need the sustenance before you sleep.”

  She nodded, absorbing that information. “Yes, all right.” And she moved past him into the front room again. He heard her open the refrigerator, heard the chink of glass as she located the crystal stored in the cabinet above it. Heard her pouring.

  How in the world, he wondered, was he going to manage to hate a woman who needed him so desperately? She knew nothing. Nothing about her strength, nothing about her psychic abilities. Not even how to feed, or what could kill her! It was uncanny. He needed her help to find his daughter, but first she needed his help. To know what she was now, what she had become.

  There was no way he could hate a woman who needed him the way this one did.

  So he’d try to help her, instead. But the next question on his ever-growing list was how the hell could he manage to help a woman who detested him? She hated him, and his kind. She hated herself, by all appearances. She hated what she was. She didn’t want to learn about her new nature, didn’t want to explore it, didn’t want his help.

  Yet she’d taken it when he’d ignored her objections and given it to her. She’d erected the mental barrier around her mind as he’d instructed. She’d fed when he’d advised her to. She’d even asked him a question or two.

  Perhaps he could help her. And perhaps she’d realize that he and his kind were no more monstrous than mortals were. Much less so in most cases. And maybe she’d give up her ridiculous notion of taking his daughter away from him. Maybe she’d realize that his own child did not need to be protected from its father.

  Or maybe she wouldn’t realize it.

  There was so much to think about. But not now. He’d drive himself insane if he tried to solve the puzzle of Angelica now. For now, he’d simply light the fire, and see that she’d fed enough to sustain her, but not enough to make her ill. And then he’d let her rest, while he planned what to do tomorrow.

  Tomorrow. When she would awaken stronger, and likely more determined to escape him than ever. Not to mention more able. How would he deal with her then?

  One thing, at least. It ought to be easier to hate her when she no longer appeared so helpless.

  And that was a good thing. Right now, he was realizing just how dangerous not hating this woman could be. Because when he wasn’t hating her, he was wanting her. And the sooner he rid himself of that particular longing, the better.

  Chapter Seven

  Jameson never did get around to showering in the wee hours of that morning. He watched her far too long, lost himself somewhere in the long locks of her satinlike hair, or perhaps it was among the glittering facets of her eyes. Nonetheless, he put it off too long, and the day sleep crept over him with the dawn. She’d fed, and then crawled into the oversize bed and fallen asleep instantly, and still he was watching her.

  And finally, he managed to pull himself away in time to get to the settee in the front room before he fell asleep at the foot of her bed. Like a devoted servant sleeping at the feet of the mistress he’d die for.

  Right.

  When the sun went down again, he rose before she did. He headed for the bathroom before even giving her a passing glance. While he was washing beneath the spray, he reminded himself several times that he hated her. And that she hated him. And that the sharing of their blood was what made him crave her so. Dream of her, when the day sleep should be too deep for dreams.

  Having convinced himself of that, he emerged from the small bathroom wrapped in a terry robe and rubbing his wet hair with a towel. But he stilled in the doorway when he saw the utter confusion on Angelica’s face. She stood staring into the closet, her brows drawn together, head tilted to one side as her graceful hands flitted over the clothes that hung there. Her skin had more color this evening. The day rest had done its magic in rejuvenating her. She seemed stronger. And the bones no longer protruded from her face. Instead of sharp and angular it was gently oval now, with cheekbones an actress would die for.

  “Something wrong?” he asked her, snapping his attention back to the matter at hand.

  And she jerked as if surprised by his presence. She really did need to tune in to her newly heightened senses and learn how to use them. She should have sensed him there, felt his eyes on her. Instead, she reacted like a mortal.

  “These…these are all very…normal.”

  “You were expecting…what? Black satin capes with stand-up collars and scarlet lining?” He tossed the towel onto the foot of the bed as he passed, then stood just behind her, looking over her shoulder at the clothes.

  “Of course not.”

  “Sure you weren’t. Hell, I only know of one vampire who still wears a cloak, and I think he just does it for the dramatic effect.” He moved past her to pull a violet cashmere sweater from the rack. One of Tamara’s old ones. Modest and demure and sweet, like her. It would fit this woman…in size, if nothing else. And the color nearly matched her
eyes, although no man-made dye could ever equal those sparkling amethysts of hers. Jameson blinked and shook himself. “Here. This will do you for tonight.” Then he continued flipping the hangers. “And a pair of jeans to go with it. What size are you?”

  “Size?”

  “In jeans,” he said, pausing with a pair of black Levi’s in his hands. When she didn’t answer, he turned to look at her. “Well?”

  “I’m…not sure.”

  Jameson frowned at her. “How can anyone not know what size jeans they wear?” Then he narrowed his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those women who refuses to tell a man her size.”

  “That would be the height of vanity,” she said, and she averted her eyes. “It’s simply been quite some time since I’ve worn blue jeans.”

  Aha, he thought. A clue to who this mysterious woman had been. “Why is that, Angelica?”

  Her head came up sharply, eyes wary.

  “I mean, what kind of things did you wear? Perhaps I can find something like what you’re accustomed to.”

  And it seemed to him in that moment that she came as close to smiling as he’d ever seen her do. Not that she actually smiled. Not at all, but there was a hint of mirth in her eyes. “Nothing you’re likely to find in a vampire’s closet,” she said. “The jeans will be fine.”

  But Jameson wasn’t as willing to change the subject as she seemed to think he’d be. “You were wearing a dress of some sort when I saw you that first time. Though…I didn’t have preternatural night vision, then. And it was quite dark. I seem to recall it as black and loose fitting. Kind of like a—”

  “I’m going to bathe now,” she said, interrupting him, and leaving him with no illusions that it had been unintentional. “I really care very little what I wear. I just want to hurry and begin the search for my child.” And she tugged the jeans from the hanger, turned and quickly crossed the room, closing the bathroom door behind her.

  And for the first time, Jameson thought back to that night when she’d nearly killed him. Really thought back. Oh, he’d thought about it before. Far more often than he’d like to admit, actually. But he’d always focused on the way she’d felt, pressing tight to him while her avaricious little mouth fed at his throat. The way he’d felt…

  Now he needed to get past that madness, and focus on something else. Details. Senses besides the one flaring to life in his libido. He went to the bed, sat down on its edge and mentally replayed all of it, from his first glimpse of her. Her tangled hair. Her dirty face. The sunken cheeks and hollow violet eyes. And the tattered black…dress…or was it a dress?

  There had been beads of some sort, clutched in her bony hands. Beads she’d been worrying or playing with, and that she’d dropped abruptly when he’d spoken to her. Beads…and she’d held them, one by one, between her fingers. Held each one, caressing it, and muttering before she moved on to the next. And they were…

  My God. Rosary beads? And the black dress could have been…a habit. Jesus, was it possible? Had Angelica been some kind of…of nun in life? In life, yes, even up to the very moment when she’d been brought over, or she wouldn’t likely have still been wearing the habit.

  She’d called him a heretic. She’d spoken of vanity. And she was so damned concerned about God and Satan and good and evil, and being damned. It made sense. Lifting his head very slowly, Jameson stared at the closed bathroom door. Beyond it he could hear water running, and the nearly inaudible sound of singing, her singing, very softly so he wouldn’t hear. “Amazing Grace.” And then the sound of Tamara’s hair dryer drowned out her song.

  He was still sitting there when she came out, wearing the jeans and the sweater he’d given her, sometime later. And he was still reeling from what he thought he had learned about her. And more determined than ever to know the truth. And yet part of him tried to get in the way of his curiosity. It was the part of him that knew full well she wore nothing beneath the sweater. He hadn’t given her a bra, wasn’t even sure Tamara kept such things around down here, and wouldn’t have known what size to choose if he’d found a cache of them in the closet. His eyes were drawn to her breasts, and the cashmere clung to them because of their dampness. And he could see her shape very clearly underneath. Her nipples poking out into the fabric in reaction to its rough, yet soft texture rubbing against them.

  He licked his lips.

  She stopped halfway across the room, and froze there, waiting. And when he realized she was looking at him, looking at her, he forced his gaze upward and met her eyes. And he knew she was only pretending to be offended over where he’d been staring. Because he could see the awareness flaring in the violet depths. The arousal. The hunger.

  He licked his lips again, and told himself to get to the matter at hand. Was she…had she been…what he thought she had?

  He cleared his throat. “I was wondering, Angelica…if perhaps I should be addressing you as Sister Angelica?”

  She took the question well, he thought. The swift intake of breath and slight widening of those eyes the only clue she’d been dealt some kind of blow. “If I had taken my solemn vows, I would have been Sister Mary Elizabeth. Since that day never came for me, I’m still simply Angelica.”

  “If not exactly angelic.” He quipped. Then he saw her wince and almost regretted it. “So you were a novitiate?”

  “Something like that.” She came forward, and finally resumed pulling the brush through her now gleaming and utterly glorious hair. It was incredible, that mane of hers. Thick and wild and long. The hair of a goddess. Or an Angel. A dark angel. “Of what order?”

  She turned, still brushing. “Why is it you ask so many questions about me, Vampire? You hate me, blame me for all that’s happened. So why do you want to know?”

  “You…bore my child. Isn’t it natural for me to be curious?”

  “Nothing about you is natural.”

  “And you know that for sure, do you? Are you sure you were just a novice nun and not God Almighty Himself?”

  Her head snapped toward him. “How dare you!”

  “Well, you certainly pass judgment as if you were, as much as you try to deny it. I was merely checking.”

  She got up, paced away from him in quick, angry strides. She was stronger now. Maybe just a little bit more herself. Having sustenance had helped even further to restore the shape of her face, and the gleam to her hair. And the sparkle to her eyes. And the spring to her step.

  With her hair flying wild, and her eyes flashing, wearing sinfully tight-fitting jeans, and an equally revealing sweater, it was easier to imagine she’d been a centerfold than a sister.

  Jesus, he wanted her.

  “I want to go now. I want to find my baby. I’m tired of you and your prying. What will we do to find her? Where will we begin?”

  He stared at her for a long moment. It should be easier to hate her now that she was strong and well. It should be. Why wasn’t it?

  Before he’d been distracted by the way she looked, and then by who she might have been in the other life, he’d been trying to decide how best to warn her about the possible nature of their child. He hadn’t come to any perfect conclusion, but he knew he had to say something. Give her some kind of preparation, just in case.

  “Before we begin,” he said, slowly, “there’s something…I’m not certain you’re aware of. Something you need to prepare yourself for, Angelica.”

  Her brows furrowed. “You’re frightening me, Vampire. Whatever it is, just tell me and let’s be on our way.”

  Jameson licked his lips, averting his gaze. He’d been wrestling with the possible nature of his child for days. It had been a blow when he’d first realized the implications. But he’d been among friends. People who loved him and explained it gently, and who would be there for him no matter what.

  It would be far worse for her. She was alone, except for a man she despised more with every breath she drew.

  Bracing himself, he met her eyes. Brilliant now, glowing like amethysts in candlelight.
Breathtaking. “There has never been a child born to a vampiress before. None…that I’m aware of, at least.” She blinked. That was all. “Angelica, we have no way of knowing…what we’ll find, when we find our baby.”

  “What…we’ll find?”

  “Whether she’ll be mortal…or immortal. Or some cross between the two. Whether—”

  “No.” She took two staggering steps backward, then gripped the back of a chair, her fingertips digging into the fabric.

  “I hope to God she’ll be a normal child, Angelica, but we can’t be certain until we see her. It would be tragic if—”

  “Your kind,” she whispered. “They never grow older?”

  Again, she confirmed his suspicion that she knew nothing about her own race. “No. Our kind never grow older.”

  “She’d be trapped inside the body of a newborn for all of her life?” She shook her head from side to side, rapidly. “No, it’s too horrible. It can’t be.”

  “It might not be. I only…I only wanted to warn you. In case…”

  She lifted her chin, and met his eyes, her own wide and clear and filled with fierce determination. “God won’t do this. Not to her. It’s enough…sweet Jesus, it’s enough to punish me. But not my baby. She is a healthy, normal little girl. She is. I know it.”

  Had he thought her weak? Physically, perhaps. But never in any other way. Not her. She looked like an avenging angel just now. And he found himself nodding in agreement with her. “You’re right. She’s fine. I’m sure of it. I’ve been worrying for nothing.”

  And in that very brief moment, when their eyes met and held, something passed between them. A connection was made. They touched on some level. And then she looked away and the feeling vanished.

  “Do you have any sort of plan?” she asked him.

  “Just a starting point. This woman who contacted my friend Tamara to tell her about the child…Hilary Garner. She works for DPI, but apparently even she couldn’t stomach them using a child this way. I have her address. We’ll go there tonight, talk to her. She might know where they’ve taken the baby…and she might be willing to tell us.”