He awoke with the night in the lush third-floor bedroom beyond the hidden door. He opened his eyes, his senses gradually sharpening in response to the usual stimulants. The silken softness of the satin sheets caressed his naked flesh. The plump feather pillow cradled his head. The warmth from the fire in the hearth below radiated into the room through the brick chimney in its center. The beat of the music from the stereo he'd set to turn on at dusk, with the help of an automatic timer, filtered softly from the speakers. He'd chosen Elton John tonight. A song called "Mellow," with a sultry rhythm that lived up to the title. The electric air freshener spilled the scent of the ocean into the room. The lights came on, dim at first, but brightening gradually.
All of it designed to comfort him in an existence where there was little comfort. He took his pleasures where he could find them. In things instead of in people. He surrounded himself with modern technology, luxurious fabrics, pleasing scents and soothing sounds. As he came fully awake, he knew it wasn't enough. Not anymore. He wanted Shannon. Her heated skin against his, instead of the cool satin. Her erotic scent filling him, rather than the artificial aroma; her sighs of pleasure surrounding him, soothing him more than any music could.
He sat up slowly as his strength filtered into him. His mind cleared its dull haze and began to sharpen. And then he went stiff with the sense of emptiness in the house. She was gone.
He threw back the covers, leapt from the bed, tried the trick of opening his mind to hers, of homing in on her thoughts and feelings to tell where she was. But his mind refused to focus. His brain screamed for action, and he complied. He threw on his clothes and ran downstairs to search the house, already knowing she wasn't there.
Netty awaited him at the foot of the stairs. "She left you a note," she said, as if reading his thoughts. "In the library, on the desk."
He shot a worried glance over her careworn face, and then moved past her into the library. Netty hurried along in his wake.
"Were you here when she left?"
"No. I've been in and out today, did some shopping for her, took care of some bills. She was still in bed sleepin' last time I checked in."
Damien strode to the desk and snatched up the envelope with his name scrawled on the front. He removed the sheet of paper, unfolded it, and imagined he could still smell her scent in the ink, feel the warmth of her hands on the stationery.
"Damien." It was written at the top of the sheet in her small neat hand. He glanced over the paper at Netty, and she nodded once, then turned to leave the room, wringing her hands all the way.
When the door closed behind her, he read on.
I couldn't stay after last night. I don't know if I can face you again, with the way I acted. I'm sorry. It was wrong of me to put you in that position, and I don't want you to feel guilty or responsible, no matter what might happen down the road. You've done nothing but look out for me. You're the kindest man I've ever known, Damien. Maybe that's what made me want you.
Still, I hope you can understand now, why I need some time alone. I'm going away for a few days, somewhere warm. Going to laze in the sun and try to get my head together. Please don't come looking for me. I want to be by myself, and I hope you'll respect that.
There was nothing more, just her name scrawled across the bottom of the page. But as he'd read her words, he'd felt what lay beneath them. Her hurt. Hurt he'd caused. She was ashamed of her actions, ashamed of wan ting him. Damn, that was the last thing he wanted her to feel!
And something else, there was something else. Something in the lines about going away that rang utterly false in his mind, and sounded a warning he couldn't ignore.
She hadn't gone anywhere. He was sure of it even before Marquand arrived, breathless, agitated, waving a bit of paper in front of him.
"You have to get out of the house." He said it without preamble, after barging in. "I mean it, Damien. You're not safe here."
Damien ignored him, still trying to puzzle out the truth hidden in Shannon's lies.
"Damien, are you listening to me? Bachman knows where you rest. He'll try for you by day as you lie defenseless."
Finally Marquand's accented words penetrated the haze of pain and loss. "Impossible. No one knows where I rest."
Marquand thrust the sheet of paper into Damien's hands. Damien didn't have time for this, but he glanced down and read the brief note. "Bachman, he rests in a hidden room on the third floor. The entrance has to be through the second guest room on the right, though I don't know where exactly."
There was no signature, and the words were typed. No way to judge the handwriting. Damien shook his head in disbelief. His gaze met Marquand's. "Netty?"
Marquand shrugged. "It's possible."
"I can't believe she would--"
"I can't figure how else the bastard could have come upon this information. But worry about that later, Damien. For now you'd do well to get yourself another resting place, one well away from this house." Marquand paced the room in a small square pattern.
Damien frowned, studying the sheet of paper in his hand. "How did you come upon it?"
Marquand quit his pacing and turned to face Damien. "I simply checked the messages left for Bachman at the front desk of his hotel." He tilted his head to one side. "Honestly, Damien, you must begin to use your powers more efficiently. It's an elementary matter to use our mental powers to influence the actions of humans. I caused the clerk to leave his station for a moment and retrieved the messages. Simple."
"If it's so simple, then where the hell is Shannon?"
One of Eric's dark brows quirked upward. "I told her to rest until nightfall. Mentally. It's worked before. Only this time it didn't. She was gone when I woke up."
"Interesting."
"Interesting? It's dangerous."
"It's possible she closed her mind to yours. The trick can be learned, even by humans, though I've rarely seen it happen. Then again, she'd have no reason to do it, since she has no idea what you are." His gaze sharpened. "You didn't take my advice and tell her, did you?"
"Of course I didn't tell her."
Eric shrugged. "Then I can only assume she felt reason to close herself off from you. Have you angered her in some way?"
Damien felt like screaming at the man. He was so damned calm! "Look, the why and how doesn't matter. She's gone and I get the feeling she's in danger. The only thing we ought to be doing right now is looking for her."
"So, look. What's stopping you?"
Damien nodded sharply and reached for the door handle. He'd begin with the car. It would be easier to track down than the woman. A firm hand on his shoulder brought him up short in the hall. When he turned, it was to see Eric with a pained expression on his face as he rolled his eyes, shook his head.
"Sit down, Damien. Clear your mind. Open it, seek her out."
"But if she's closed herself off from me..."
"You won't be able to influence her, but you ought to sense her presence, feel her surroundings, discern whether she's safe."
Damien shook his head slowly. "I'm not sure I can do it. God, Eric, you don't understand. I've never used this psychic ability. Never wanted to." He glanced up as a thought occurred to him. "Why don't you do it?"
Another irritated sigh. "The Chosen connect most thoroughly with a single vampire, Damien. In case you haven't yet realized it, you are that one for Shannon. I might sense her dimly, especially if she's in peril. But for you the knowledge will come much more easily. Try, please."
Damien nodded, but doubted it would work. He walked back into the living room, lowered himself onto the chaise and tried to relax and let his mind go blank. He closed his eyes.
"All we need now is Rhiannon with her incense and candles," Eric muttered. Damien opened his eyes, lifted his brows.
"Nothing, just talking to myself. Concentrate, Damien. Focus your mind on Shannon. Put a picture of her in front of your eyes. Bring her to life inside you until you can feel her touch, smell her scent."
Damien closed his eyes again, and found it remarkably easy to bring Shannon to mind. It only took recalling the way her mouth tasted, its warmth, its depth, its heat. He shifted uncomfortably, but kept his focus. The sense of danger increased with his every thought.
It was incredible, that's what it was. It was absolutely incredible. No sane person would take any of it seriously, because none of it could possibly be true.
But it seemed true. Shannon had read the notes on the organization known as DPI. The Division of Paranormal Investigations. It was a secretive organization, one whose purposes the taxpayers and most of the politicians in D. C. knew nothing about. And its sole reason for existence, according to Marquand's notes, was to seek out and destroy vampires, though they claimed it was to discover their secrets through research. Marquand held the organization responsible for murders, kidnappings, torture.
Of vampires.
He claimed his own wife--no, mate, that was the term he'd used--had been abducted by the ruthless scientists. That she'd been subjected to horrible experiments just because they knew of her association with him. And that was when she was still mortal. Before he'd transformed her.
Still mortal? He'd transformed her?
Shannon had been shaking all over by the time she'd finished reading and replaced the papers in the desk. Marquand must be as crazy as Bachman. He actually believed himself to be a vampire. He actually believed it. Shannon wondered if he really even had a wife, or if this beautiful Tamara mentioned in the file was just a figment of his obviously sick imagination.
But Damien believed it, too. He must, or he wouldn't still be associating with the man. He'd have had the guy committed by now.
She had to stop thinking about it, had to stay alert. She'd left the mansion in her car, knowing how noticeable it was, and she'd driven slowly, for a couple of hours, all over town, hoping to attract the notice of the killer. Then she proceeded to her office, driving so she could easily be followed.
Once inside, with the lights blazing an invitation to all corners, she checked to be sure the gun was loaded and ready. And she sat down to wait.
The killer, the perfectly human killer, would come for her. At least, she hoped he would. She couldn't have made it much easier for him. He'd come tonight or not at all, and if he did, she'd be waiting. She'd deal with Damien and Marquand and Bachman and their misguided delusions later. Right now, she only wanted to stop a killer, avenge Tawny, and she sensed her time was running out.
Death was a dark shadow that had been stalking her for a long time now. But tonight it felt closer than ever before. She could feel its clammy breath chilling her nape, feel its gnarled claws reaching out to her.
She had to get the bastard tonight.
She didn't have to wait long before footsteps sounded on the stairs outside. She stood up, lifted the gun, watched the doorknob turn.
But it wasn't the killer that quietly walked into her office. It was Stephen Bachman.
She lifted the gun anyway, pointing it squarely and steadily at the left lapel of that gray tweed jacket. He ignored it, walked up to her desk and took a seat.
"You ready to come over to my side yet. Shannon Mallory? Or are you going to wait until they make you their next victim?"
She blinked. He studied her steadily, just waiting.
"At least I know you're not one of them. You were driving your fancy car all over, right under the blazing sun."
"And you were following me."
"Smart girl. So why'd you leave him? You finally have sense enough to get scared?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I'm talking about monsters. Shannon. Not the kind that lurk under a little kid's bed, but real adult monsters. Beings that live by killing. Animals that feed on fear and death. You know about Damien now, what he really is. You wouldn't be here if you didn't. Humans mean nothing to him, to any of them. We're disposable, here only to fill their twisted cravings." He leaned back in the chair and tugged on his flawless cuff. "You're damned lucky you got out when you did."
"You're crazy if you think I believe any of this."
"Any of what?"
"You know what. That Eric Marquand and Damien are... vampires. There's no such thing and you're nuts if you think there is."
"I don't think. I know." He tilted his head. "So the newcomer is Marquand. I thought it was, but I'd never seen him up close. We've been watching him longer than any of them. Almost had him once. Damien, we didn't know about. Not until the murders. I've only had him under surveillance since I got the report on that first body."
She laughed, ignoring the ball of knowledge that thudded into her stomach. "You're certifiable."
He leaned closer, his dark eyes intense.
"Have you ever seen him in the daytime. Shannon? Have you ever seen him eat? Hmm? Is there a mirror anywhere in that entire place?"
"There's food in the house. I've eaten there--"
"But he hasn't."
She shook her head. "And his schedule is only to keep up the image. It's a mystique, for the fans. That's all."
"A vampire murdered your friend, Ms. Mallory. And if you're not careful, you'll suffer the same fate... or something worse."
She frowned at him, her hand clenching reflexively on the pistol butt. She still pointed the weapon at him, too jumpy and nervous to relax her stance. "What do you mean, worse?"
He shrugged, got up and paced to the window. "I have a notion Damien the Eternal would have killed you by now, if that's what he wanted. I think he has other plans." Bachman shoved his hands into his perfectly fitted trousers pockets and pretended to study the view.
"Spit it out, Bachman. What are you dancing around?"
He glanced over his shoulder at her. "I think he wants to make you one of them. Keep you for his own sick pleasures. Forever. Worse than hell, if you ask me. You'd be his prisoner for eternity."
"How did you ever get so screwed up, Bachman?" She paced toward the door, then to her seat again, clutching the back of it with one hand, clutching her gun in the other. She stared at the floor, let the barrel drop along with her gaze. "Suppose I bought this line of crap? Wouldn't turning me into a vampire negate the whole plan? Wouldn't I be as strong as him then? How could he keep me prisoner?"
"You know precious little about the subject. Powers increase with age in these creatures. And he's so old we don't even have a handle on his origins yet. Marquand, we know about. Comes from France, transformed during the Revolution."
She knew her eyes widened as her head came up again, knew she gasped. It was stupid, because she didn't really believe any of it. "You're telling me Eric is over two hundred years old?"
He looked at her as if she was an idiot. "That's young for them. The oldest one we have a file on is from Ancient Egypt, daughter of a pharaoh. And we suspect your Damien is even older than her."
"You're nuts." She strode over to where he stood, near the window. "Look, just what do you think you're getting from this visit? Why are you bothering to tell me all of this?"
His lids lowered to half-mast. "Why do you think?"
She frowned, took a single step backward. But his hands on her shoulders stopped her. "I like you, Mallory. I like your spunk. I even like the way you took my damned sidearm. Not to mention you're probably the sexiest damned female I've ever laid eyes on."
Lies. All lies, and so obvious it was child's play to see it. He wanted something from her, and it damned well wasn't her body. She watched his eyes. "You don't even know me."
"I know you're sick, dying maybe."
Her eyes flew wide. Her chin went up. "How do you know that?"
"Your medical records. But you knew I had them. They were in the files you stole from my hotel room."
Her medical records were in those files? But she hadn't seen them. Had Damien? Had he known all along about her health, and kept it from her? Why?
"You're a rare specimen. Shannon. You have a blood antigen and line of descent that makes you one of the few people in the world who can become one of them. Unfortunately, it also makes you sure to die young. They all do. But we're doing research at DPI, Shannon, research that might help you."
Research. She'd read about their research in Marquand's notes. Tamara, strapped to a table in a hidden lab and tortured, until Eric Marquand had come to get her out. And then he'd been captured, drugged, nearly killed.
Maybe it wasn't all fiction after all.
"If you'd come with me, put yourself in my hands, we might be able to find a way to keep you alive. We might even find a cure--"
She pulled from his rough embrace. "Come with you where?"
"The facility in White Plains. It's a research center."
White Plains. It was mentioned in Eric's file. God, could it all be true?
"You'd be safe there. Shannon, under constant guard. We have the best doctors and scientists in the field-- "
"So, then I'd be your prisoner? Hell of a choice I'm left with, isn't it?"
"You wouldn't be a prisoner. You'd be protected. There's a difference."
She was afraid of him all of a sudden. Afraid that he wouldn't take no for an answer. "Look, I'm all too aware how little time I have left. But I don't intend to spend it as someone's pet guinea pig. And I don't believe any of this farfetched crap about vampires. All I want to do is find Tawny's killer, and no matter what you say, I don't believe it was Damien."
His gaze raked her face. "I'm sorry to hear that."
There was a warning in his words. "Why? What are you going to do?"
He shook his head slowly. "You'll come with me, in the end. One way or another."
She lifted the gun's muzzle. "You planning to try and force me?"
"Not yet. Not with those two still out there. I don't aspire to end up like some of our other researchers who've tried that tack. But I would advise you to stay away from him. Shannon." He stepped past her, toward the door. "He's going down. I have no choice in the matter. He's a killer. And when it's over, I'll be seeing you again." The hardness in his face eased just a little. "And no matter what you might think. Shannon, it's for your own good."
She shook her head fast, following him to the door. "This is crazy. Bachman, he's not what you say he is. I swear--"
"You don't know. I do." He opened the door. "I'm taking him out. There's no other way."
She argued, but she was talking to an empty doorway. Bachman was gone, threats and all.
She blinked slowly, feeling as if she were immersed in a strange dream. She wanted to wake up, but couldn't. She didn't want to accept that all of this was real. Bachman really believed in it, along with an entire division of the US government. So did Eric Marquand. And Damien? What did Damien believe?
He found her sitting on the floor of her shabby little office, facing the door, her gun in her hand. Her eyes were perfect ovals of confusion. And damp. The lump in Damien's throat couldn't be swallowed away.
"I thought we agreed you would wait until after the next performance to tempt fate. Shannon."
He stepped inside. She stood. "I didn't think you'd find me so soon. You're too smart for me, I guess."
Frowning at the paleness of her face, he took a step forward. His heart jelled when she took a step back. "You afraid of me now?" he asked softly. "What happened?"
She shook her head in denial, but he saw the fear in her eyes. "I'm not. I just want to be alone, that's all. Can't you just go? Please?"
Holding her jittery gaze with his own, Damien shook his head slowly. "I can't leave you here alone. You know that."
She turned her back on him, and her hair flew with the abrupt motion. He wanted to touch it, bury his face in it, inhale its sweet fragrance. "I'm sick of you making all my decisions for me."
"I haven't--"
"You have!" She paced away, still not facing him. "You decided I should stay with you after the fire. You decided how we should investigate the case. You decided to let me perform with you, but only to put me off. And now you're deciding not to let me take what amounts to my last chance at getting this bastard. Look, I've been too independent for too long to let someone take over now." She stopped on the opposite end of the room, as far away from him as she could possibly get. "My life is my own. I say what I do and where I go. Right now, I want to be here, and I want to be alone."
"Why?"
She shook her head and looked at the floor.
"Dammit, I'm not leaving here without an answer." He strode across the room, and she cringed, sending a bolt of pain through his chest. He gripped her wrists, holding them to her sides. They stood facing each other, the window their backdrop.
She refused to answer, but the fear in her eyes was all the answer he needed. When she looked away from him, that fear increased. Her eyes widened and her skin went milky white. "My God..."
"What?" He stopped speaking when his gaze followed hers to the perfect image of her, reflected in the darkened window as clearly as if the glass were a black mirror. Though he stood beside her, his image wasn't there.
She met his gaze again, blinking, fear making her lips turn bluish and tremble as if she were freezing to death. "B-Bachman told me, but I... didn't believe..."
"Bachman. I should have known. He's been here, then?"
She nodded. What sense was there in lying to him? She searched his face, the same handsome face she'd found so beautiful before. "God, Damien, tell me it isn't true. This is all crazy, isn't it? It's a fantasy. It's a fairy tale."
He hesitated. "Shannon..." He tried to form words, but none left his lips. What could he say?
"You can't even deny it?" Shock made her voice a whisper. "I'm having a breakdown, aren't I? This is only happening in my mind. You aren't even here--I'm all alone. Maybe you don't even exist, and I--"
"That's enough. Shannon!" He put one arm around her shoulders and turned her toward the door. "Come on, let's get out of here."
She stiffened, resisting him. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
"The hell you aren't."
She snatched the gun from her waistband as she danced away, then leveled it at him. In a lightning-fast move, he took it from her, then crushed it to a small metal lump. He let it thud to the floor.
She shook her head too fast and stepped backward. Her pupils dilated, until the amber of her eyes was only a thin ring around them. He'd terrified her. He shouldn't have done that.
"I'd never hurt you. Shannon. You know that. You have to know that. I couldn't if I wanted to." Still she stared, wide- eyed, pale. He could see the erratic pulse thudding in her neck. "I can't just leave you here for the murderer to find. And I damned well can't leave you to Bachman so he can fill your head with nightmares or, worse yet, take you off in chains to some maximum-security lab for what those bastards call research." He saw her blink when he said that, and wondered if Bachman had suggested it already. "I only know about it because Eric warned me. Shannon, come with me. I'll try to explain--"
She lunged for the door, but he caught her around the waist and jerked her back. She ended up crushed to him, her heart pounding, her cheeks flushed. Her breaths came in short little puffs. She stared up at him, her lips trembling, and shook her head from side to side.
Having her this close to him stirred his senses to full alert. His heart raced in time with hers, and he spread his fingers over the small of her back. "Shannon... it kills me to see you so afraid of me. Don't you know that I could never hurt you? Don't you know...?" He whispered the words, and saw her eyes moisten. His head bent, and he took her mouth, took it with a frenzy that couldn't been tamed. His hands moved all over her, unable to touch enough of her at once. He traced her spine, kneaded her shoulders, sifted her hair, caressed the gentle curve of her neck.
Very slowly it dawned on him that she was not resisting. Her trembling hadn't stopped, but it had changed. Her hands rose, timidly, before locking around him. Her head tipped backward in response to the thrusting of his tongue, and she suckled him. His ardor flamed high. He pressed his hips forward, to show her, and her hand ran up over his shoulders and down again. When she arched against him, he cupped her round, firm buttocks, squeezed them, pulled her harder against him, and heard the soft moan she made.
Insane with wan ting her, he moved her backward until she bumped the desk. With a sweep of his arm he cleared it, and then he lowered her onto its surface. Her breaths came fast and warm on his face. He ripped the front of her silk blouse open. Buttons flew. Her breasts hid behind the lacy fabric of a bra, but he tore that away, too, baring them to his hungry eyes. With a little growl, he bent to nurse at them, feeding a need that went beyond hunger, beyond lust. He sucked hard at one tight bud, feeling it stiffen and stand. He caught the peak between his white teeth, snapping them down on the crest again and again until she screamed his name and clutched his head in both hands. Then he repeated the torment on the other.
She was panting now, each inhale short and shallow, each exhale a whimper. He lifted his head, watching her face as his hands moved to her jeans, their button, their zipper. He shoved the denim down over her buttocks, running his palms over their smoothness as he did. He pushed them down her thighs and she kicked them from her feet.
Then he straightened, standing between her legs with an arousal so hard it was painful. He stared down at her, bared to him, and he told himself he couldn't do this. He shouldn't...
"If you stop this time, I will shoot you," she whispered. "I don't want to hear any more of this craziness. I just want you."
He knew it was wrong, knew she was as afraid as she was aroused. And yet he sank his fingers into the silken curls between her thighs. He parted her folds, and explored her tight, damp center. He found the tiny nub, and pinched it between his fingers. She closed her eyes and cried out.
"Shannon, I--"
"I don't care! What have I got to lose, Damien? Dammit, make love to me!"
He prayed she wouldn't regret that command, even as he unfastened his pants to free his throbbing erection. He saw her gaze fasten to that part of him; he felt the touch of her eyes burning him. Placing his palms to her inner thighs, he spread her wider, and stared at the delectable feminine morsel before him. Then her hand closed around him and pulled gently. She guided him up tight to her slick center, squeezed him hard and let him go. Her gaze held his as she lay back on the desk, hips arcing toward him, waiting.
He sank into her slowly, gradually, deeper and deeper until there was no more of him to offer. He pressed tight to her, and she sighed long and coarse. Her hands clutched his buttocks. His hands closed tight around her waist, better to hold her to him. That grip tightened as he withdrew, and this time, he was not gentle when he plunged into her. Again, he pulled back, holding her imprisoned between his strong hands as he thrust once more. Her muscles tightened around him, as if wan ting to keep him there forever. She lifted her head and shoulders from the desk, reached for him with her mouth, and he responded, bending over her, kissing her. He made love to her mouth as hard and deep and as urgently as he was making love to her body.
And then she went still, her entire body stiffening, her hands clenching, her breaths stopping for an interminable moment. He felt the tightening around him. An instant later she screamed aloud, and her body spasmed its release in waves that forced him to respond in kind. He spilled his essence into her, feeling as if it were drained from his toes. And then he sank onto her beautiful body, and he held her in his arms.
Watching their frenzied coupling from the fire escape, Anthar swore viciously in Sumerian and then in Babylonian and finally in English. He'd waited, waited endlessly for Damien to give in to his lusts and take the woman. And he had; at long last, he had. But he'd failed to drink from her. Somehow he'd overcome the instinct as powerful as nature itself, and he'd refrained from even a sip. Dammit! If Damien had so much as tasted her nectar, Anthar might have found an opportunity to separate them, finish her off and leave her for Damien to find. He'd have believed himself the villain. He'd have gone insane with remorse and grief and self-loathing. Why the hell hadn't the bastard tasted her?
Now Anthar would have to wait for another opportunity. And judging by the girl's health there might not be one. He hadn't realized how close she was to her end. If she died, his opportunity for the perfect revenge would die with her. Damien had to be driven to suicide. It was the only way to ease the agony of Anthar's wrath.
After all, that was the way Siduri had died.
Siduri. Ah, how beautiful she'd been, and how he'd wanted her. He might have had her, too. Anthar had often visited her little cottage by the sea. But alas, the Great Gilgamesh had stopped there, half dead and half mad, filthy and exhausted and starving. He'd paused on his quest for immortality, just long enough to destroy the life of an innocent barmaid. And she'd taken him in. She'd fed him, clothed him and held him in her arms to ease his pain. And when he'd recovered, he'd left her, cold snake that he was. He'd never once looked back, never once paid heed to her pitiful begging of him to stay.
He didn't even know how much she'd loved him, never learned of how she'd died.
She'd just walked into the sea. Just kept walking until she could walk no more. Then she'd swum. And like him, she'd never looked back.
Only Anthar knew. For he had her words, engraved in the stone tablet, written in the script she'd been forbidden as a woman to learn. She'd learned anyway. She'd learned from Anthar himself. And many other things, as well.
So beautiful, so bright. Dead because of Gilgamesh, as surely as if he'd choked her life away with his own two hands.
Gilgamesh would pay. Yes, he would, by whatever means necessary. He would pay by losing what he most loved.
