Wings In The Night - Beyond Twilight Part 4

He said nothing, and tried not to feel her soothing touch as she began a rhythmic ma.s.sage.

"How did she die?"

"I don't remember." His eyes wanted to close. He hadn't slept much, and when he did, he didn't rest. He only dreamed about making frantic, hot, imaginative love to Cuyler.

"Why are you lying to me, Ramsey?"

Her fingers kneaded the sides of his neck. He let his head fall sideways to give her more access. "I'm not going to talk to you about my mother," he said, but his voice lacked conviction. He sighed as the image of her danced through his memory. "She was beautiful, all carrot-colored curls and pale blue eyes. And she'd sing... Sometimes, right before I fell asleep at night, I can still hear her singing to me. Wild Irish Rose, that was her favorite." For a few seconds his mother's lilting voice played in his memory. Then he felt Cuyler's lips on his head. She bent and pressed her cheek to his, and he felt the dampness on her skin.

"I'd take the pain away, if I knew how."

"I know you would." Why did he say that? And why did it sound so true? He swallowed and tried to regain his strength. "We all have pain, Cuyler. Just part of life. You must have hurt, too, when you lost your sister."

She sniffed, and her hands slid down his chest to rest near his heart. "For a while I wanted to die. Then I wanted vengeance. I thought about hunting down every man involved in that raid. But it wouldn't have eased the pain. It wouldn't have brought Cindy back."

"Might have stopped them from snuffing out another life, though."

She straightened, came around the chair and knelt in front of him. He shouldn't have been surprised at the tears on her cheeks, but he was. Her kind wasn't supposed to have human emotions, wasn't supposed to care. Wasn't that what he'd been taught? And hadn't that particular bit of DPI doctrine been losing validity with every second he'd spent near Cuyler?

"What happened to you then?"

"A military school. Some benevolent organization foot the bill. I lived there, stayed with relatives who'd rather not have had me during vacations. Then the DPI academy, for training."

"And indoctrination."

He shook his head slowly, staring down into her beautiful face. "It wasn't like that."

But it was. Since he'd been twelve years old, he'd been educated under the organization's watchful eye, beginning with the debriefing right after his mother's murder. They were the ones who'd paid for his education, who'd provided a private tutor to teach him the things he wouldn't learn in any school. He'd been filled with hatred already, and that hatred found validation in his secret lessons, the ones he'd been warned not to talk about. He supposed now, that they'd seen him as the perfect candidate. He'd had a score to settle. He'd been seeking vengeance all his life. They'd known that, and offered him the means to achieve it.

And now he was sitting here with one of those he'd spent his life hating. He was sitting here wanting her with every cell in his body, talking to her like a cherished friend, finding a kind of understanding he'd never expected s.h.i.+ning from her teary eyes.

But it was all a lie. It had to be.

"I don't want to be here with you, Cuyler. You're too d.a.m.ned convincing." He pushed her hands away from him and got to his feet. Leaning against the hearth, he closed his eyes.

"Why do you hate me so much?"

Lifting his head, he looked down at her, still kneeling in front of the chair. "My mother was killed by a vampire. One of you. Someone that feeds on the innocent without a hint of remorse. A killer." He hoped his words would rekindle the hatred in his soul, reinforce his resistance to Cuyler and her wiles.

Her eyes widened and for a moment she only stared at him in stunned silence. Finally she shook her head. "It wasn't me."

"You're all the same." He looked away from her. Dammit, he couldn't spout DPI policy while he was looking into those eyes. "So now you know. Nothing you can say is going to change it. You can pretend to be just like us all you want, Cuyler, but I know what you are. And I'll never stop hating you."

She rose slowly, anger beginning to simmer in her eyes. "You're lying. You don't hate me. If anything, you hate yourself for not being able to-"

He lifted a hand, cutting her off. "Don't bother. You're only trying to convince yourself."

"But it's so stupid! Ramsey, one of your kind murdered my sister and pumped enough bullets through my body to kill an elephant. But I don't hate you for it. I don't lump all mortals in with the few truly evil ones. I don't go out hunting them down like animals to exact vengeance."

"Don't you?"

She flinched as if he'd slapped her. "How can you ask me that?"

G.o.d, the hurt in her eyes... He looked at the floor, at the bean-bag, at the fire. Anything but at that pain he'd caused. "Look, you got what you wanted. We've talked. Do you think we can get the h.e.l.l out of here now?"

She stood so still, stunned maybe. "I don't have what I wanted. I still don't know why there's this connection between us. I still don't know what misguided force makes me give a d.a.m.n about a man like you."

"Let's chalk it up to physical attraction and call it even."

"It's more than that and you know it!"

He faced her, forced his expression to remain hard as stone. "Maybe for you it is, but not for me, Cuyler." He strode to the stairway, started up it. "I'm packing my things. You line up whatever means of transportation got us here, and have it ready."

"I won't."

He never broke his stride. "Then I'll go on foot."

"I won't let you!" She came up the stairs behind him.

"You have to sleep sometime, Cuyler. One way or another, I'm out of here." He went into the bedroom, slammed the door and turned the lock. He couldn't look at her, listen to her, for one more second or he'd break. It was all a game, some mind game she was playing to win his trust, and it had been working all too well. Until he'd brought the memory of his mother's death back to burning life, anyway. d.a.m.n Cuyler for making him talk about his mother, for stirring up that old pain, and especially for acting as if she cared. d.a.m.n her.

Chapter Six.

Like a potent corrosive, his rejection burned through her. But he didn't hate her. She knew better. It was in his eyes, in his voice. She was so attuned to his feelings that it was impossible to be fooled by his stubborn resistance. He liked her, in spite of his determination not to. He wanted her, though it went against everything he'd ever believed in. But she also knew that the conflicting emotions were slowly tearing his soul apart. She sensed his every emotion, even the ones he denied; frustration, confusion, anger, desire. Bringing him here, forcing him to see her as she was, instead of as DPI had painted her, was the same as torturing him. It was cruel to put him through this, especially now that she knew where his hatred originated. To see Cuyler as a woman and not a monster was, in Ramsey's mind, to betray his mother. To side with her murderer.

Maybe she ought to just take him back, let him go.

She twisted the doork.n.o.b, freeing the lock with her mind the way Rhiannon had taught her. Ramsey was asleep. He reclined on the bed, his back against the headboard, his head c.o.c.ked to one side until his ear touched his shoulder. He looked as if he'd sat down there with no intention of going to sleep.

Cuyler walked softly to him. Even in sleep, he seemed strained. A slight frown puckered his brows. His lips were tight. His pain showed in his face, a pain he'd felt for a very long time. For a moment, as she looked at him there, she saw the image of the boy he'd been. A boy whose innocence and mischief had been stolen from him along with his mother. A boy forced to become a man before his time, a man who'd forgotten how to love.

She stared at him, sending silent, soothing messages from her mind to his. She focused her energy on relaxing him into a deeper sleep and chasing his worries from his mind the way an autumn wind chases fallen leaves. Then she leaned closer, clasping his st.u.r.dy shoulders and easing him lower until his head rested on the soft pillows and his back wasn't bent so severely. She tugged a blanket from the foot of the bed to cover him. Then she bent and brushed her lips across his, a whisper of a kiss.

When she straightened away from him, his hand reached toward her. He whispered her name.

She ran a hand over his cheek, into his hair. "I'm here. Rest now. Just rest."

His body relaxed again, and he sank back into his deep slumber. Cuyler sighed softly, shaking her head in remorse. She couldn't let him go. Not now. DPI had targeted Ramsey for their vile organization from the second his mother had been killed, she was sure of it. They must have known of his anger, his fury and feelings of helplessness. The guilt even a boy of that age would suffer; that he hadn't been there, hadn't been able to help her. Those ruthless men had stoked the fire of Ramsey's anger, built it into the blazing inferno that was rapidly devouring his soul. They were using a young boy's pain as a weapon against Cuyler and her kind. And she couldn't shake the feeling that they intended to use it against Ramsey, as well. DPI would see both of them destroyed unless she could find a way to fight them.

She understood so much more now. But still not enough. There was no explanation for the connection between her and Ramsey. She sensed the solution to all of this hinged on her discovering the cause of that emotional, mental link. And until she did that, despite the pain it caused him, she had to keep Ramsey here, with her.

Ramsey trudged through the snow, half-blinded by the brilliant sun flas.h.i.+ng from its pristine surface into his eyes. He had to find a way out of this mess. He was desperate, and this was his last-ditch effort. There had to be some means of transportation, somewhere. A plane, a snowmobile, something. Clever as she was, Cuyler had probably hidden it a distance from the house to keep him from escaping. He didn't know why he hadn't thought of the possibility sooner.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep. He supposed the stress and sleepless nights were beginning to wear on him. It was only when he woke to see bright winter sunlight slanting through the window that he'd realized just how tired he'd been. Oddly, he felt rested, refreshed even. No dreams, for a change.

But that wasn't right, was it? There had been dreams, just not the usual wildly erotic ones that left him exhausted. He'd dreamed of Cuyler. She'd been leaning over the bed, touching his face, stroking his hair and whispering softly to him. Her touch had been soothing, her voice like a salve on his oldest wounds. He hadn't wanted her to leave.

He stopped walking and closed his eyes as a shaft of pain bisected his chest. There'd been a blanket over him when he woke. He didn't remember putting it there. Had Cuyler really come to stand over him, touched him that way, whispered so lovingly, so gently, as he'd slept?

She'd kissed him. Her soft, moist mouth had touched his for the barest instant, and he'd wanted to pull her into his arms, into his bed. He'd wanted to feel her smiling lips caress every inch of him, and then he'd wanted to do the same to her. The h.e.l.l with the danger that she might go too far. The h.e.l.l with the fact that they were sworn enemies. He wanted her with a pa.s.sion above and beyond all of that. Above and beyond everything.

He opened his eyes and drew a deep breath, steadying himself. He had to get away from her. She was bewitching him, using her mental powers to make him forget his life's work, driving him so with desire he'd gladly exchange his every principle for a night in her arms. He was in danger with her, and he had to get out or lose his mind.

But now that he had, he almost wished he hadn't. He'd trudged a couple of miles, he figured, and the scenery hadn't changed in the least. Nothing but white. No trees. No vegetation of any kind. Hardly any hills. He was pretty sure what he was looking at could be described as tundra. He hoped to G.o.d he found some form of aid soon. He wasn't exactly dressed for long periods of exposure. Only thin rubbers separated his shoes from the hard-packed snow. His ski jacket was hardly sufficient, and he didn't even have a hat with him. The wind whipped hard out here with nothing to break its progress.

He walked a little farther, then frowned and tilted his head. What was that sound? A motor of some sort growled in the distance. He turned slowly, trying to gauge the source, then realization dawned. A snowmobile. No, more than one. And the sound came from the direction of the house, though he couldn't see it anymore. His first thought was that Cuyler was coming after him, using a machine she'd had hidden somewhere.

But that thought was quickly banished. It was still daylight. She wouldn't even be awake yet.

He blinked slowly as that thought sunk in. She wouldn't be awake. She'd be lying in her bed, behind unlocked doors, thinking she was completely safe up here in the middle of nowhere.

The motors died abruptly. They didn't fade away, but simply cut out. The snowmobiles had stopped, and as near as he could guess, they'd stopped near the house. Someone was there, and with a churning in his gut, Ramsey thought he could guess who.

It made no sense to think DPI had somehow tracked them here. But it made less sense to think some harmless folks had just decided to take a snowmobile ride north of the Arctic circle and happened upon her house. Cuyler was there, alone and completely helpless. Her stories of torture and murder were utter fabrications. He knew that. But they were echoing through his soul all the same as Ramsey started walking back the way he'd come. Then he started running.

He followed his own tracks for several yards, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched against the biting wind. But the tracks got harder and harder to see as he went. He frowned hard, and whispered a little prayer they wouldn't disappear entirely before the house came into view. d.a.m.n, he'd been an idiot not to take windblown snow into account. It had been filling his tracks behind him all the way out here.

And then he couldn't see them at all. Not even the tiny depressions he'd been following this far. Dammit to h.e.l.l, he couldn't see the house. Everything looked the same in every direction. The wind was blowing harder, its bite sharper with every gust. It would be dark soon, and colder than ever. He tried not to think about what might be happening in the house right now, but images danced through his thoughts anyway. Cuyler's warnings about DPI's tactics rang in his ears, no matter how he tried to tune them out. He hadn't believed her. He'd told himself she was just trying to convince him not to take her in. But he now found himself wondering if there was even the slightest chance of truth in her horror stories. He didn't want to believe that, wouldn't let himself believe it. But the idea that anyone might deliberately hurt her...

Why the h.e.l.l did it drive him to the brink of madness to consider it? Why?

The motor sounds came to life again. He was closer. He tried to run faster, but the frigid air burned his lungs and throat. They were moving, fast, in the opposite direction.

"Ah, G.o.d, no..." He tried for more speed, but he was out of breath. His muscles screamed in protest. His legs gave out just as the house came into view, and he dropped to his knees in the snow, scanning the horizon where the sun hovered, about to set.

And then he spotted them. Three snowmobiles zipping over the tundra in the distance. One pulled something behind it. Something long and narrow that looked like a box. He groaned in anguish as they moved out of sight.

He wasn't sure how long he knelt there. Emotions raced through him, so potent and confusing that he felt dizzy. Hadn't he been determined to take Cuyler in himself? Hadn't he vowed that he'd never stop hating her and everyone like her for what they'd done to his mother?

Why, for G.o.d's sake, was he racked with guilt that he hadn't been there to protect her? The frustration was as bad as what had consumed him as a result of not having been there to protect his mother. Why? Why was he kneeling in the snow, burning inside with the urge to go after them, to somehow get her away from them? He cursed softly at the thought of riding in like some knight on a charger to rescue his damsel from villains. It wasn't like that. She was the villain of this piece.

Wasn't she?

He got to his feet and made his way back to the house, not even bothering to stomp the snow from his shoes as he ran through it and up to her bedroom, already knowing he wouldn't find her there.

The empty bed was rumpled, the drawers and closet gaping wide, clothes strewn everywhere. When he went back downstairs, he found more of the same. The place had been searched, hurriedly and recklessly, before they'd taken her away. Her pewter figurines lay strewn everywhere. Her crystals had tumbled helter-skelter to the floor. The bookshelves had been emptied, her precious fairy-tale stories trampled beneath uncaring feet.

He bent to pick up the first of the vampire books she'd shown him, and bit his lip against the burning in his throat and eyes.

He couldn't hope to hike out of here tonight. He'd die of exposure before he reached help, and then Cuyler would be on her own. He had to wait, though it would d.a.m.n near kill him to do it. At first light, he'd go, with as many provisions as he could carry. He'd get out of here, somehow. And he'd find her.

After that, he didn't have a clue what he'd do.

For now, though, he had to sit tight and await the cold dawn. He sank into a chair, weak from turmoil, and opened the book in his hands.

Chapter Seven.

It took him two hours to read the entire book. And Cuyler had been right. The entirety of one of DPI's most disastrous investigations had been doc.u.mented there, from the viewpoint of its subjects. It was quite a different take on things from the one in the official records. Oh, the facts were the same, but DPI's methods and motivations and the characteristics of the subjects of that investigation, couldn't have differed more. Ramsey had to believe it was all propaganda. Because if it were true...

He groaned in undisguised agony. If it were true, then Cuyler had been right about the torture involved in DPI's research. Even several deaths, all detailed here in these pages.

But it wasn't true. It couldn't be.

He knew, though, that it very well could be. He'd never been involved in the research end of things, never actually witnessed the so-called harmless studies performed on the subjects. He wasn't a scientist. And while he'd been told that the prisoners brought in would be kept for a week or two and then released, unharmed, he'd never actually seen that happen, either.

DPI believed Cuyler and her kind to be no better than animals. Beings without emotions, incapable of caring. Heartless, soulless beasts who preyed on the innocent with no sense of remorse. That much he knew. And it wasn't so farfetched to think that an organization who believed that about a group might want to annihilate that group. Was it? So why hadn't he known about it? And would it have made a difference to him if he had?

Up until a few days ago he'd believed everything DPI said about the undead. And he'd had a personal vendetta, to boot. But not against Cuyler. Everything he'd ever believed had been a lie, at least where she was concerned.

He got up, intending to go to the little kitchen and begin packing supplies for his trek out. He was no longer so certain he could wait for dawn to break. There was a new urgency eating at his soul. He had to get to her, just to prove to himself that she was all right and not being subjected to the torments described in the book. With every second that pa.s.sed, those scenes embedded themselves more deeply in his mind, only the victim wore Cuyler's beautiful face.

He stopped halfway to the kitchen, stiffening at the sc.r.a.ping sounds coming from the front door.

"Cuyler?" Hope surged in his chest as he sprinted and yanked the door open.

A big, furry dog stood there, staring at him. It barked twice when he only stared back in confusion. Where the h.e.l.l had it come from? More barking followed, and he looked up in amazement to see three other dogs, identical to the first, sitting patiently in the snow. Huskies, all of them. Silvery fur and ice blue eyes. Magnificent, wide chests.

Sled dogs?

The one at the door barked again. Ramsey frowned, thinking of the sled and harnesses he'd seen in the bas.e.m.e.nt. Was this how Cuyler had brought him here? Were these dogs hers? But what were they doing here now? Where had they been?

It didn't matter. He saw the means to get out of there, and he knew he had to take it. Leaving the door wide, he ran into the bas.e.m.e.nt and hauled the awkward sled up the stairs. He dragged it outside, and went back for the harnesses, praying he could figure out how to put them on properly, hoping the dogs would allow it.

h.e.l.l, he didn't know what good it would do. He had no idea which way to go, even with transportation.

When he brought the harnesses outside, the dogs surrounded him, barking excitedly, tails wagging. They seemed impatient as he stretched the straps out, trying to see which way they went. But they stood motionless when he draped the things around them, and he knew they were used to this procedure.

Once he got them hooked to the sled, he ran back inside long enough to get his coat. That was all. His thoughts of bringing provisions had fled. All that remained was his urgent need to get to Cuyler, to make sure she was all right.

He stood on the back of the sled and picked up the reins. The dogs were off like a shot the minute his feet touched the narrow platform, nearly jarring him off into the snow. He didn't try to guide them. They seemed to know exactly where they were going. All Ramsey could do was hang on and pray that they really did know.

He wasn't sure his prayers were answered until several hours later when the dogs stopped and stood barking like a raucous group of soldiers celebrating victory. A huge, barnlike structure stood in the middle of the perfectly flat, snowy plain. As Ramsey tried to adjust to the oddness of finding it here, a gruff voice called out to him.

"I expect you'll be wanting to fly out of here, after that other plane."

Ramsey turned and gave his head a shake. A grizzled old man, his face completely obliterated by a ma.s.sive gray beard, came from the barn and bent to expertly release the dogs from their harnesses.