Born in Twilight: Twilight Vows Read Online Free PDF Page B

protective eyes watching over him.
    He walked fast, enjoying the exertion and the chill. And he planned. Well, he supposed he might break into DPI headquarters and go through their files. Maybe tap into their computers and see if any information could be found there. Or perhaps he could just grab one of them. That Nazi-like doctor, Rose Sversky, for example, or perhaps Fuller’s lapdog, Stiles. He could torture one of them into talking. Maybe even Fuller himself. Jameson smiled as he thought about the pain he’d like to inflict on that bastard, who’d done likewise to so many, for so long.
    Whatever he decided, he couldn’t do anything until he convinced Eric, Tamara, Roland and Rhiannon to get the hell out of here and leave him alone. If they stayed they’d get themselves tangled up in whatever mess he ended up creating, just as they always did, and he didn’t want that. He didn’t want his friends—family, really—put at risk because of his need to vent this old, ever-growing anger. His passion for meting out some long-overdue justice. He couldn’t allow them near this. It was going to be messy.
    So he supposed he’d have to wait, and…
    Jameson came to a stop in the street, and stood silently, head cocked slightly to one side as the cold wind ruffled his hair and stung his cheeks. He’d heard something…something so faint no one else passing on the street seemed to notice. Or if they did, they didn’t seem to care. He had to strain to catch it again, with the slow-moving traffic, and blasting horns, and hissing air brakes. Less noisy now than during the day, but not by a hell of a lot.
    A second ticked by, then two. And then he caught it again. The sound was that of moaning. Agonized, pain-filled moaning.
    And the voice was that of a vampire.
    A little shiver crept up the back of Jameson’s neck as he pinpointed the source of the sound. An abandoned building, several yards away from him. Crumbling brick and fingers of broken, dirty glass. Snow on the old stone dormers. Gargoyles lining the top, though little remained of those gruesome guardians now. You couldn’t even make out their features aside from their snarling mouths, and angel’s wings, dusted now in snow.
    She was in there.
    How he knew that—how he could even hear the sound of her voice—Jameson didn’t know. It wasn’t audible. Not to mortal ears, anyway. But that was just it. His were mortal ears. So why was he hearing her, sensing her there? Why could he feel her pain?
    Jameson Bryant was not a fool. He’d encountered other preternatural beings before, those who were strangers to him. And he always avoided them. True enough, it went against their nature to harm one of their own—one of the Chosen. Those rare mortals with the belladonna antigen coursing through their veins. They always knew that antigen. Scented it or sensed it or something. And most of the undead tended to protect and watch over those mortals with the antigen. Dark guardians. Dark angels. His mouth twisted in a smile at the irony of that.
    But there were exceptions to every rule. And there were monsters in every race and every species. He did not make a habit of walking up to strange vampires and extending a hand.
    But this time was different. He was compelled, drawn by some force he neither recognized nor understood. She might be mad. She might be a killer. She might turn on him. But he had no choice but to climb over the graying boards nailed in the shape of a cross in the doorway of the ruined building, and make his way through the rubble, to where she was.
    And when he finally saw her, his heart tripped over itself.
    She sat, curled in the fetal position in a corner. Her black dress—or robe or whatever it was—was torn and tattered and filthy. As was her tangled ebony hair, long and dirty and covering her face. She was startlingly white. So very white she nearly glowed in the darkness