An ancient symbol of protection and royal power, the Eye of Horus was the crest of the Egyptians’ patron god, one of the oldest and most significant gods of Egypt, the city from which the Ikati of the Roman catacombs traced their lineage.
God of vengeance, god of war, Horus was always depicted in the ancient texts and hieroglyphs as a peregrine falcon.
It was taken as a sign. And when the Bellatorum found out that he and Eliana were well, had been declared friends and family, and furthermore that no harm would come to any of them or their colony by the Queen’s decree, it was taken as another sign.
The choice to join the confederacy had been easy after that.
What hadn’t been easy, for D at least: accepting Alexi.
He begrudgingly admitted that the man had stayed true to his word. He’d helped all the remaining members of Eliana’s small colony in Paris reunite with their old colony in Rome, and he’d made sure no trace of them could be found for any of their enemies who might be looking. But that didn’t make D like him any more.
It made the Queen like Eliana more, however. As it turned out, the two of them were of one mind when it came to seeing humans and Ikati live together peacefully. The Queen herself was half human, after all. It was a goal that looked highly unlikely in light of what Caesar had done, but a goal the two of them had decided to work toward nonetheless. Their existence was no longer a secret, and the threats to them had multiplied a thousandfold, but the Queen had refused to leave Sommerley, and Eliana had refused to leave the Queen.
“She knows what it’s like to be a woman in a man’s world, Demetrius,” his love had said. “Besides, I’ve always wanted a sister.” Then she’d given him a toe-curling kiss that made him forget what they’d been talking about in the first place.
So they’d stayed the last few months at Sommerley, planning for the future. Planning for this beautiful wedding, which was now coming to a close.
“You may kiss your bride,” Celian murmured with a glance at D and a slow, lazy grin spreading across his face. Celian unwound the silk cord that bound D’s wrists to Eliana’s and stepped back, his hands clasped behind his back.
And when Eliana blinked up at him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining, her pulse fluttering wildly in the base of her throat, D cupped her face in his hands and lowered his forehead to hers.
“To forever,” he murmured.
“Forever,” she murmured back, a tear slipping down her cheek.
Then, with his heart like a hammer in his chest, D pressed his lips to hers.
Light through lashes.
Fingertips brushed lightly across his lips.
D opened his eyes and looked into Eliana’s. It was morning, and they’d only been at Sommerley for two days. Realizing what had just happened, he began to chuckle. He wrapped his arms around her and drew her to his chest, laughing into her hair.
“What’s so funny?” she murmured.
“Just had a dream.”
She went still. “A dream-dream, or a Dream, capital D?”
He pressed his lips to her hair. “Both.”
She lifted her head and looked at him, a quizzical furrow between her brows.
They were naked in a very large bed, pillowed with very fine sheets, in a very fine room that was far too fussy and finicky for his taste. The Queen and her Alpha had put them up for the last several days, which they’d spent mostly in this bed, talking a lot, making love even more.
They had to make up for three years’ worth of lost time, after all.
“Well, are you going to tell me about it?” Eliana insisted, poking him in the chest with the tip of a finger. “Was it good? Was it bad? Was it—”
“It was perfect. It’s all going to be perfect,” he whispered, then leaned in to give her a kiss, soft and warm. His hand slid up her arm to cup her face.
When they broke apart, they were both breathing faster. “You’re not always going to be able to distract me like that, you know,” she complained, not really meaning it.
“Oh yes, I am.” Just to prove it, he kissed her again.
When he pulled away this time, it took her a moment to open her eyes. When she did, they were heavy-lidded and full of heat.
“Damn.” She sighed. “I hate it when you’re right.”
His brows lifted. “Thought you’d be used to that by now.”
This earned him a glare. “Don’t push your luck.”
“Hmmm.” He trailed his fingertips slowly down the length of her spine, enjoying her little shiver, the satiny softness of her skin. “You’re sure you don’t want to grovel a bit more?” he murmured, teasing. “I was getting to really like your groveling.”
And she had been. Ever since the Queen had shown her the Truth with a capital T as she liked to call it, he’d had apology after apology, all heartfelt and sincere, every one of them stopped with a kiss from him. They weren’t going to look back anymore. They were going to look forward.
Because now he knew exactly what they had to look forward to.
But she took him at his word. Her glare faded, replaced by instant, lip-biting chagrin. She stammered, “I—I should have trusted you from the beginning. I should have let—I should have let you explain before I left. I’m so—I’m so—”
That’s as far as he let her get. His lips were on hers before she could say it again.
“I’m starting to think this is all excuses for kisses,” she murmured against his mouth when he drew back. Her lashes lifted and she gazed at him, her eyes soft.
His brows rose. “Are you complaining?”
“No. I love your kisses.” She snuggled closer to him, pressing her pelvis to his. “Almost as much as I love some of your other things.” Then she giggled.
His hand trailed lower, past the curve of her hip, to her bottom, so perfectly round and soft he couldn’t help but give it a pinch. She yelped, complaining.
“You’re lucky all I’m doing is pinching, baby girl. I think you deserve something a little more stringent for running off without my permission to see your gangster friend Gregor.”
She’d told him all about Gregor, about how he’d helped her and been a friend—purely platonic—and he was going to make sure the man stayed safe, because she was worried about him. And what she worried about, well, that became a priority for him.
“Your permission?” She repeated it in an innocent voice, playfully batting her lashes. “Right. I’ll be sure to remember that next time.” She gave him a grin that said she would absolutely not be remembering that next time.
“Just going to have to spank you, baby girl,” he warned, spreading his big hand over her behind and glowering down at her.
“Ugh. You’re obsessed with spanking!” She pushed against his chest, but he had her in a tight grip and didn’t budge.
“Please,” he scoffed. “Don’t act like you don’t like it.”
She looked mortified. “Of course I don’t like it—”
He cut her off again with a kiss, this one harder and more demanding. He pressed his body against hers, rolled half on top of her, and when she wrapped her arms around his neck he took both her wrists in his hands and pressed them down to the pillow above her head and held them there, captive.
“Truth with a capital T, remember?” he said, his voice husky, eyes burning into hers.
She managed to look outraged, for about two seconds. Then she dissolved into laughter. “Okay. Maybe I like it a little bit.”
“Better,” he said, smiling now. He released her wrists and brushed a lock of blue hair from her cheek. He tugged at the strand. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about this.”
Her hand flew to her head. “What? You don’t like it?”
“Actually…I do. But you told me before you changed it to blue with black to match your mood. Your usual mood.”
“And?”
“Well”—he brushed his lips across her forehead—“what if that’s not going to be your usual mood anymore? Would you change the color?�
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She blinked up at him, suddenly coy. “How do you know it’s not going to be my usual mood anymore?”
“Because I plan to ensure it, that’s why.”
A smile spread over her face. “Well, in that case—yes, I’d change the color.”
“To what?”
The smile grew dazzling. When she really smiled, she smiled with everything she had. D’s heart soared.
“I don’t know,” his beloved said. “What’s the color of happiness?”
They stared at each other in silence, the future unfurling between them like the loosed strings of a kite.
“You know things are about to get worse,” he whispered. “Things are about to get very bad for us all.”
She nodded, her smile fading. “I know. First the Expurgari, now that group, Section Thirty…”
D stiffened in anger, remembering what the Queen had shown him, Eliana’s memories like a sped-up movie inside his own mind. He’d already taken his revenge on that bastard Keshav for putting his hands on her—he didn’t think he’d be walking anytime soon—but the images of the cold-eyed German doctor were what really stuck with him. Looking into those eyes was like looking into an abyss. His dream had revealed nothing of the German.
“You think they’re another religious outfit?”
Eliana exhaled and shook her head. “Worse—corporate.”
“How is that worse?”
“Religious fanatics, I can almost understand. They’re following a belief, and however warped that belief might be, it’s still based on something they think of as sacred. It makes them more predictable, their goals more clear. They want us dead because they think we’re evil; it’s cut-and-dry, simple. We know what to expect. But with a corporation, only one thing matters…”
“Profit,” he realized, with a slow, sinking feeling in his gut.
Her eyes, gazing up at him, grew troubled. “If they’re after us because of money, because they think somehow they can profit from us…” She swallowed. “The Expurgari just want us to die. But there are far, far worse things than death, Demetrius.”
He didn’t reply, only gazed back at her, knowing without doubt she was right. Worse than death was life in chains. Worse than death was bondage. Slavery. Being captive guinea pigs.
Greed was one of the seven deadly sins for a very good reason.
“I know.” His voice grew soft. “Like being apart from you, for instance.”
She started. “Something you’d like to tell me? Is that what your dream was about?”
He drew her even nearer, cupped her face in his hand, and looked into her eyes. “Baby girl, you’re just going to have to trust me about the dream. Can you do that?”
“Oh,” she breathed, her eyes locked on his, “I think I need more practice with the trust thing…maybe we need to be in a shower for that. It worked pretty well at Alexi’s.” Her lips curved into a slow, mischievous smile.
He smiled back. Then in one lightning-fast move, he tore the covers off both of them and threw Eliana over his shoulder.
There was little time to prepare for what lay ahead. With the death of the pope and the slaughter at the Vatican, the entire world now knew of their existence, and the entire world was in an uproar because of it.
The future, dark and uncertain, loomed large. But right now, here in this little oasis in the middle of an ocean of insanity, D and Eliana had each other, and they needed more practice at a little thing called trust. So with a sharp smack on her behind that had her cursing in outrage, D set off for the bathroom with his woman over his shoulder, kicking and squealing, pummeling his back with her fists.
“Resistance is futile, principessa.” He gave her another smack, a broad smile on his face. “How many times do I have to tell you that? Resistance is futile.”
Damn, but he loved his Gift. And her, the spitfire on his shoulder. His future bride.
He loved her most of all.
The serum had been removed, the lab that produced it totally destroyed, along with all their records. It had been shipped ahead in the large freight containers with the cache of weapons. The cases of money he wasn’t taking any chances with and had them loaded onto the yacht he’d rented that was currently en route to their final destination.
Zion, land of gods, hidden deep, deep within the African rainforest, would have to wait. Eliana knew he planned the stronghold to be built along the banks of the Congo, so he’d changed his mind and was headed to Spain.
He’d always wanted to see those Gothic cathedrals and Gaudi’s fabulist sculptures, watch the bullfights and drink sangria on a sun-drenched beach.
Meet a few sloe-eyed flamenco dancers and see if their screams outdid those of the cancan girls in Paris.
It was only him and the five others who’d helped him on Christmas Day now; naturally, Silas couldn’t be trusted. There in the pope’s private chambers, after the Swiss Guard lost their nerve en masse and fled from the sight of his bullet-riddled body regenerating itself, Caesar had ensured Silas met with the same end he’d so spectacularly failed to execute on him.
Caesar had slit his throat from ear to ear, and then he’d driven the blade of Silas’s own dagger straight through the back of his neck.
He died facedown, twitching and wheezing into a growing pool of his own blood.
Too bad, so sad, and good goddamn riddance.
The irony wasn’t lost on Caesar that his entire past had been defined by what he couldn’t do, and now his entire future would be defined by what only he couldn’t do, but everyone else on Earth could: die.
His body rejected death the way a vending machine rejects a torn bill. It took it in, assessed it for a moment, and then spat it unceremoniously back out.
No, we’re not having any of that nonsense, thank you. Try again.
In the last week, he’d tested it himself. Drowning, electrocution, a high fall, an even higher dose of prescription medication, hanging, a straight shot to the brain with a gun—just in case the first shooting was a fluke—seppuku, and the ever-popular self-immolation. Nothing worked. He would actually die, quite painfully, too, but in moments his body would simply regenerate, and that, as they say, was that.
Really, could anything be better?
He’d believed himself unblessed. UnGifted. Everyone had. But now Caesar understood he’d been given the greatest Gift of them all.
Immortality.
He couldn’t Shift to Vapor, he couldn’t Shift to panther, but so what? He also couldn’t cease to be.
Oh, happy, happy day.
Oh, beautiful day!
As Caesar stood at the helm of the yacht next to the swarthy hired captain—who of course would also have to die at the end of this trip—feeling the salt wind sting his face, the wind whip his hair into his eyes, he knew that all his tomorrows would be even better.
As always, I must first thank my wonderful editor at Montlake Romance, Eleni Caminis, whose name and feisty spirit were the inspiration for Eliana. You’re a joy to work with. To the rest of my friends and family at Montlake, you are an amazing team, and I’m grateful to have found a home there with you. I also owe thanks to my agent, Marlene Stringer, who gives the best advice. Here’s to future adventures! To Melody Guy, thank you for all your wonderful ideas and feedback, and to Jessica Fogelman, thanks for your incredible eye for detail.
Without my readers, of course, the stories of the Ikati would be gathering dust on a shelf. I am profoundly grateful that you have taken the time to buy this book and continue to support the Night Prowler novels with so much enthusiasm and generosity. And to the fantastic book bloggers who have introduced my books to their communities, I’d like to give a special thank-you. Your dedication to reading and reviewing books is such a crucial service to readers. I’m humbled and thankful so many of you have taken the time to recommend my books.
Writing a novel is a long, lonely process, and without the support of my family I wouldn’t be able to do it. Or much of anything else, for that matt
er. Mom and Dad, thanks for being cheerleaders and for instilling in me a lifelong love of reading.
And to Jay, my amazing, charming, brilliant, funny, capable, courageous, cheerfully combative, and most excellent husband…I’ve said it before, but it’s true—I’d be lost without you. You are the kind of person I’ve always wanted to be.
Photo by Jay Geissinger, 2011
J. T. Geissinger’s debut novel, Shadow’s Edge, was published in 2012 and was a #1 Amazon US and UK bestseller in fantasy romance and romance series. She is a 2013 finalist for the prestigious RITA® award from the Romance Writers of America for best paranormal romance for her second book in the Night Prowler series, Edge of Oblivion. A native of Los Angeles, she currently lives there with her husband and is at work on her next novel.
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