Twilight Prophecy by MAGGIE SHAYNE Page B

pulling them across the table to her. She took another bite and sat back with the pencil poised. “So? Tell me what you need.”
    Lucy thought of all the things she needed, and then she thought of the one thing she wanted. She wanted that book by Lester Folsom, the one with the parts of the story these vampires might not be telling her. “My handbag,” she said. “I really can’t even begin until you get me my handbag.”
    Brigit frowned, but jotted it down. “I fail to see how your handbag is going to help you translate, but I’ll get it. What else?”
    Lucy listed several indispensable reference books from her personal collection. She would have loved to have asked Brigit for some of the volumes at the university, but she didn’t want to drag any of her colleagues into this mess or put anyone else at risk. So she only named the books that could be found in her own little cracker-box house with its marigold-filled flower boxes in the front windows and its marigold carpets lining the walk all the way to the stoop.
    She missed her home. Her haven.
    “Got it. And that’s upstate, right?”
    “Binghamton, yes.”
    Brigit frowned but didn’t argue. “I might need to delegate. Anything else?”
    “My laptop. It’s there, too, at the house.”
    Brigit scribbled on her notepad. “Is that it?”
    Lucy nodded. “That’s it.”
    “Good. All right, this is going to take some time. Do what you can while I’m gone. Eat some of the fruit I brought you. You must be hungry. And you need to keep your strength up. Also, there’s a bathroom all the way at the end,” she added with a nod toward the door at the back of the office. “You can wander all you want in this section, but don’t go into the main part of the house. We can’t afford to have anyone see movement out there. Okay?”
    “Yes. Okay.”
    “Okay. See you in a while. Behave.” And with that, Brigit left her alone.
    Alone in a crumbling mansion full of vampires and their…kin. In a hidden section, behind a secret wall, translating an ancient dialect under duress.
    She couldn’t have made this up if she’d tried.
     
     
    Brigit drove into the city, parked her car in a no parking zone near the curb and walked three of the remaining four blocks to Studio Three. She stopped there, still a block away. She could see the spot on the sidewalk where the spineless little mortal had been shot down.
    She frowned and wondered if she was starting to think a little bit too much like Rhiannon. But then, there was no such thing as too much, in her opinion. Rhiannon was Brigit’s hero. She wanted to be as much like the ageless, timeless vampiress as possible. And even then, she knew she would never compare.
    Rhiannon was surely one of the most powerful of her kind, and there was no doubt she was the most arrogant. She was impatient, demanding, intolerant of weakness or whining and she had a temper that could easily explode into violence. But she was good. Deep down, she was good.
    Brigit wasn’t. She was the bad twin, always had been. Her brother had been born with the power to heal, to restore life. He’d restored hers—she’d been stillborn. Blue, until he’d wrapped his tiny hand around her fingers, or so the story went.
    She, on the other hand, had been born with an opposing power. One she’d been sternly warned not to use, not to play with, not to demonstrate—ever. J.W. was the good one, the hero, the healer, the guy in the white hat. Brigit was little more than a Disney villainess. Every story needed one, after all. She’d accepted her dark nature long ago. She did what she wanted, when she wanted and she made no apologies. There was no point trying to be good. She hadn’t been born with a calling, the way her saintly twin had.
    Rhiannon had been the only person in Brigit’s life to encourage her to develop her power. In secret, without the knowledge of her vampire father, Edgar—who preferred to be called Edge, and really, who could blame him?—and