Twilight Prophecy. Maggie Shayne
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not.”
“So, you’re a translator?” he asked, as he flipped pages to find her story.
“And an archaeologist, and a professor at Binghamton University,” she said softly.
Not bragging, just particular about getting her facts straight, he thought. She was a pretty thing. A bit skinnier than he liked, but women had been curvier in his day. She dressed down, though. Probably to be taken more seriously in her career. Pencil skirt, simple white blouse with a thin, cream-colored button-down sweater over it. Very plain.
“And now an author to boot,” he added.
“It’s mandatory in my field. ‘Publish or perish’ is more than just a figure of speech.”
Or in his own case, publish and perish, he thought. He found her article and, without time to read it all, skimmed ahead to the actual translation. Within the first few lines, he was riveted.
The offspring of the Old One,
All the children of the Ancient One,
Of Utanapishtim,
In a stroke, are no more.
In the light of his eyes, they are no more
To the last, to the very last,
Unless Utanapishtim himself … (Segment Missing)
“As I say, it’s not what it says that’s so interesting,” the skinny professor said, her voice breaking into his reading. “It’s that the Sumerians simply were not known to prophecy. But—”
He held up a hand to stop her distracting chatter as his eyes sped over the lines.
When light meets shadow,
When darkness is well-lit,
When the hidden are revealed,
War erupts.
Like a lion, it devours.
Like a tigress, without mercy, it destroys.
For the end is upon them,
The end of their kind,
The end of their race,
The race that sprang from his veins.
The door opened, and the redhead—Kelly—poked her head in again. “Time to go on, Mr. Folsom.”
“One moment!” he barked, startling both women. He had to finish reading. He could not stop there. He had to know.
Only the Old One … (Segment Missing)
The Flood-Survivor
The Ancient One
Utanapishtim
The Two must bring about … (Segment Missing)
The Two who are opposite
And yet the same,
One light, one dark,
One the destroyer.
One the salvation
“The twins,” he whispered. “This is about the legendary mongrel twins.”
“Excuse me?” Professor Lanfair asked.
“Mr. Folsom,” Kelly said. “We have to go.”
Ignoring them both, he flipped the page, but there was no more. Lifting his head, he speared the professor with his eyes. “That’s it? That’s all? They printed all of it?”
“Yes. At least, that’s all so far. There are still hundreds of broken pieces of clay tablets from that particular dig site in storage. There may be more to this tablet, but at the moment—”
“Mr. Folsom!” Kelly was not taking no for an answer.
He nodded, closing the magazine and handing it back to the doe-eyed bookworm. “It’s not a doomsday prophecy at all, Professor Lanfair. Not for humankind, anyway. This is about them.”
“About whom?”
He sighed, glanced at the redhead and then leaned close to the professor and whispered in her ear, “About the race no one believes exists—the very one my book is about to expose on national television tonight.” A sudden chill raced up his spine, and he glanced at the TV screen in the corner again, then narrowed his eyes and looked more closely. As the camera panned over the studio audience, he spotted a dark-suited man standing near the back, and then another near the exit. Both wore tinted glasses in the dim studio. His mouth went dry.
But he couldn’t back down now. He had to see this through. Returning his attention to the pretty professor who had stumbled upon what might be the key to everything, he pressed his personal copy of his soon-to-be-released book into her hands. “You’d better hold on to this. Don’t let anyone know you have it, and don’t let it out of your grip. No matter what.”
“I don’t under—”
“I’m about to tell the world that vampires really do exist, and that our government has known about it for the better part of a century. The darkness, my dear girl, is about to be well-lit. The hidden is about to be revealed. And there are those who don’t want that to happen. But the proof—” he tapped the book’s cover with a forefinger “—the proof is in there.”
Then he straightened away from her, nodded at the television set and said, “Turn up the volume and pay attention, Professor. Somehow, this involves you, too.” Then he walked out the door, letting it swing closed behind him.
He followed the youthful and impatient producer, who all but trotted down one long corridor after another. It was all he could do to keep up, and he was literally out of breath by the time she pushed open a pair of double doors and held one with her back while ushering him through. “Take your time crossing the stage,” she told him in a whisper. “Wave hello to the audience. And watch those cables on the floor.”
Will Waters, twenty-five-year news veteran, retired network anchor and current host of the nation’s top-rated prime-time news magazine, rose to his feet and extended a hand in Les’s direction. “Please welcome Lester Folsom to the show.”
Struggling to catch his breath, Les lifted his chin and began walking forward, his pounding heartbeat barely audible to his own ears due to the live studio audience’s obedience to the glowing “applause” sign. Silently, he wished he hadn’t missed Will Waters’s entire introduction. But he could guess at what it had entailed. The true contents of his book had not been revealed to anyone besides the publisher, only the barest of hints had been released to the press. That he had worked for a top-secret sub-division of the CIA for more than twenty years, a sub-division known as the Division of Paranormal Investigations, or DPI. And that his book would reveal the existence of things formerly believed to live only in the realms of fiction. Just what sorts of things—that was what he would talk about tonight. If those fellows in the back of the audience let him get that far, anyway. He’d have to get straight to the point with Will Waters. No time for small talk.
He stepped over a pair of heavy cables that snaked across the floor and made his way to the host, one of the most beloved newsmen in the world. Will Waters extended a hand.
And just as Lester Folsom closed his own hand around it, he felt something like a sledgehammer pound into his chest. And then again. And again.
It was only as he sank to the floor that the accompanying sounds—Pop! Pop! Pop!—registered in his brain. Not hammer blows. Gunshots. Bullets. They felt nothing like he’d expected. And vaguely, he became aware that the famous veteran newsman was on the floor beside him, jerking spasmodically as he bled out. Collateral damage. That was what those suits would call it.
As the light of this world began to fade and the light of another appeared on a distant horizon, Lester thought that they had got to him even faster than he had anticipated.
He’d done the right thing, though. And despite this sloppy