Edge of Darkness (A Night Prowler Novel)

by J. T. Geissinger

  He handed the drawing back to Marcell. “Well. Just one more reason to kill the son of a bitch.” He dusted off his hands as if the paper had soiled them and instructed, “Get copies of that to everyone. I want to know who this girl is. If we can find her, we can find him. And she’ll undoubtedly be much easier to find than our rogue friend.” He smiled. “And might make him a little more inclined to comply with our demands.”

  He sat back in his chair—really, it was more of a throne, high-backed and elaborately carved, cushioned in red velvet—and looked around the room in satisfaction. In spite of the problem with the rogue male, everything was going so well.

  The place he’d settled after leaving Rome was a stroke of pure genius, if he did say so himself. With unobstructed views of the sprawling city below and the forested mountain range behind, the abandoned bunkers, remnants of the Spanish Civil War, were situated at the crest of a jutting outcropping of rock. The steel-reinforced concrete structures were crumbling in many places, graffitied by long-ago vandals as well, but afforded an excellent point of ingress and egress, easily defended.

  But the above-ground portions of the bunkers were not the most valuable aspects of his new colony. The most valuable aspects were below.

  A labyrinth of hand-dug tunnels connected larger, open spaces that served as barracks, training facilities, and storage for food, weapons, water, and other supplies. And, of course, his playroom. Also, at a constant chilly 55 degrees, the caves provided the perfect temperature to store their most precious commodity: the serum.

  The single thing Caesar admired about his dead father Dominus was the thing that would ultimately allow him to rule the world. A brilliant scientist and evolutionary biologist, his father had invented a serum that would allow human and Ikati blood to be compatible. Half-Bloods could live for a while, but eventually were faced with the Transition, a do-or-die event that occurred at twenty-five years of age, exactly at the minute of birth.

  Fewer than one percent of half-Bloods survived the Transition, a problem that had defied solution for all of their recorded history. No one knew why, but, just like a clock ticking down to zero hour, there was a definitive expiration date for those of mixed Blood.

  Only now, due to the invention of the serum, there wasn’t. The serum allowed the delayed first Shift to occur, and a half-Blood survived it without problem. Even better, he was going to use mankind’s prolific fertility against them. If all went according to plan, humans had only a few generations left on the planet.

  After that—bye, bye, birdie!

  In the meantime, terror and anarchy—two of his favorite things—would reign supreme.

  He needed to find a trustworthy lab to produce the quantities he needed because he had neither the medical facilities or the mind for science his father had, but the supplies they’d stockpiled would suffice very well to set the plan in motion. As a matter of fact, the first part of the plan was already well underway; they’d already impregnated dozens of women, willing and otherwise. Hundreds more would be similarly situated soon.

  The harem and nursery were another wonderful addition to the barren underground caves.

  But they needed more offspring, enough to build an army, and it would take time. Considering he was immortal, time was really of no consequence at all. He’d be able to see this plan to its ultimate fruition.

  He turned to his second-in-command, a hulking male with a cool, soulless beauty, and those obsidian eyes they all shared. “What’s the current count, Marcell?”

  Marcell inclined his head respectfully as he always did when speaking to Caesar—a habit Caesar absolutely delighted in—and said, “Two hundred six, sire.”

  Caesar was pleased. He’d arrived in Spain with only a handful, but now the disgruntled members of the other colonies, ruled as they were by their Draconian Law, were flocking to him in droves. It seemed there were many who believed, as he did, that the Ikati should no longer hide in the shadows.

  They’d had thousands of years of that. Time to flourish in the light.

  Also, time to dig more tunnels.

  Caesar sat back in his throne and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. With calm deliberation, he instructed Marcell, “Go and find me this Plain Jane Nico saw the male with. And then we’re going to finalize the plans for The Hammer. I want everything in place and ready by the middle of March; this year Easter is on the thirty-first.”

  Marcell bowed, he and Nico backed quickly from the room, and Caesar was left alone with his thoughts, all of which brought a deeply satisfied smile to his face.

  Just like last Christmas, this Easter would be one humans would never forget.

  The telephone ringing shrilly next to her ear awoke Ember with a jolt the following morning.

  She looked in confusion around her bedroom, wondering why she wasn’t in the bed, when she remembered she’d been doing research far into the early hours of the morning, and must have fallen asleep at the desk.

  She stretched her neck, which responded with an ominous series of cracks, reached over, and picked up the phone. Into it she mumbled something resembling a greeting.

  “September!” her stepmother brayed into the earpiece. With a wince of pain, Ember jerked it away from her ear. She glanced at the clock; just before eight. What on earth could she be calling about at this hour? The woman never rose before ten.

  Then panic hit her, cold as a pail of water splashed in her face. Picturing the bookstore burned to the ground, she bolted upright in the chair. “What’s wrong, Marguerite? What’s happened?”

  “I’ve had the most wonderful news!” she crowed in response. Ember frowned, confused, because her stepmother was never happy, and she was definitely never happy when she called her.

  “I don’t understand—is everything all right?”

  “Breakfast, my dear, breakfast. We’ll meet you at Ovando at ten!”

  Ovando was Marguerite’s favorite restaurant, a swanky affair full of celebrities, posh socialites and prominent businessmen, perfect trolling grounds for finding her next ex-husband. Though Ember knew her well enough to find her repulsive, she couldn’t deny the woman had a certain way with men. She had long ago perfected the art of discerning men’s deepest, darkest desires with a few well-timed questions and a shark-like ability to scent weakness. She found out what they needed and gave it to them. Then when they were emotionally dependent on her, she took it all back and left them clamoring for more.

  Genius in her own way, she was also perverted in the truest sense of the word; she was so distorted, her heart so corrupted by the desire for money and power, she could never truly love.

  It would have been funny if it wasn’t so sad.

  Judging by the way Marguerite had said “we,” Ember knew her stepsisters would be tagging along. The Tweedies never missed an opportunity to eat.

  “Marguerite, it’s Monday. I have to work—”

  A truly frightening cackle came over the line. “Work! Oh, dear, that’s rich! That’s too, too rich!”

  Ember removed the phone from her ear and stared at it as if it had sprouted horns. Too rich? Who talked like that? And what had this woman on the other end of the line done with her evil stepmother?

  “Ten o’clock, September, don’t be late. And try to look presentable, will you, dear?”

  Marguerite disconnected, the dial tone sounded, and Ember’s mind went over every possible explanation for what had just happened. Since when was she “dear?”

  In the end she decided there was really only one way to find out.

  By the time she reached the restaurant exactly two hours later, Marguerite and the Tweedies had already begun to eat.

  “I thought you said ten,” Ember muttered, disgruntled as she always was by the sight of her stepsisters. Sitting side by side in the plush leather booth, wearing matching lavender dresses despite being about twenty years past the point when it was either cute or acceptable, Analia and Allegra ignored her appearance and continued eating their breakfas
ts. Even the food was identical; poached eggs with shaved black truffles, crepes Suzette, Belgian waffles with fresh cream, double sides of sausage, and coffee, black.

  Because one just had to spare the calories somewhere.

  “Anyone with an ounce of good sense knows you have to arrive early to get the best seating at Ovando,” sniffed Analia to her eggs. Allegra agreed with an imperious toss of her head, saying, “And anyone with an ounce of good breeding knows you should always arrive ten minutes before that.”

  Ember felt a violent urge to stuff one of their sausages into each of their mouths.

  “Sit down, September,” directed Marguerite with a wave of her hand without looking up. She had some paperwork spread out on the table beside her plate and was fingering it with what appeared to be almost religious reverence. Ember’s brows drew together; whatever this was, it wasn’t good.

  She took a seat opposite the Tweedies, and ordered coffee from the waiter who appeared then disappeared, silent as smoke.

  “You really should eat more,” observed Marguerite, looking down her nose at Ember. She shot a proud glance at Analia and Allegra, plump as fatted calves. “That heroin chic look went out in the Eighties, my dear.”

  There is was again—“dear.” The word crawled over her like a cluster of tarantulas.

  “What’s going on, Marguerite? What’s with the paperwork?”

  The Tweedies rolled their eyes at one another. “Surly,” said Analia.

  “American,” said Allegra, and both of them burst into a fit of snorting giggles.

  The twins had disliked her on sight when they’d first been introduced. Dislike had taken a turn toward hate when it was discovered Ember’s father—a relatively famous artist who Marguerite had mistaken for a rich artist and married within months of meeting him—would not be able to cure the debts or the bad name their own father had left with the family when he disappeared. General consensus was that the Tweedies’ natural father done some bad business with the mob and had most likely been disposed of, leaving his wife—his third wife—and twin daughters in the lurch.

  But that wasn’t Ember’s fault. As far as she was concerned, they were just spoiled jerks.

  She looked at them now and said, “Laugh it up, asshats. Once mommy dearest dies, you two vultures will be alone with each other forever. Who do you think will eat the other one first?”

  Allegra spit out a half-chewed chunk of Belgian waffle, Analia gagged over her eggs, and Ember enjoyed a profound moment of satisfaction, until Marguerite ruined the entire thing when she spoke.

  “Antiquarian Books has been bought.”

  Ember’s head snapped around. She stared at a coldly smiling Marguerite, her brain unable to process what had just been said. “Bought? When? By who?”

  “Last week. I didn’t want to say anything because the paperwork wasn’t completed, but it’s done now, everything is in order, all I need you to do is sign over your shares to the new buyer, and it’s finished.”

  Marguerite slid the papers over the pristine white tablecloth to Ember, who stared at them as if they might suddenly burst into flame. “But…who…why would anyone want it? You said it yourself, it’s upside down, the creditors alone—”

  “It was all arranged through Señor Alvarez,” Marguerite responded dismissively, leaning back against the leather. She smoothed a hand over her hair—scraped back off her face as always and pinned to a severe chignon—and took a sip of her coffee. “There was an anonymous buyer, some rich book collector who’d apparently been interested in the store for quite some time. The deal was all cash, if you can believe it! He’s paid for the entire catalogue, including all those mid-century cookbooks your father insisted on and I knew would never sell. At any rate, it’s an incredible stroke of luck. And the offer was ludicrous!” She actually laughed, which made Ember cringe in horror, it was so grotesque. “We’ll both be set, my dear! Set!”

  Ember sat there staring at Marguerite in disbelief. Her money problems were over?

  Over?

  “Exactly how much are we talking here?”

  Marguerite leaned over and pointed to a line near the bottom of the top page of the sheaf of documents. Ember squinted at it, sure she wasn’t reading it right. She leaned closer, peering, her mouth half open, until the numbers wavering on the page cleared and even upside down made sense.

  With an audible humph, Ember collapsed back into her chair.

  “That can’t be right,” she said weakly, disbelieving. “That’s ten times what it’s worth. Twenty! And in this economy…who in their right mind…”

  She trailed off, her brain suddenly blank.

  “Well, my dear,” Marguerite said brightly, “like I always say, never look a gift horse in the mouth!”

  As if squeezed out by a giant, invisible hand that had clamped around her chest, all the air left Ember’s lungs.

  Never look a gift horse in the mouth. Asher had said those exact words to her—when Dante had told her not to worry about the rent.

  Marguerite produced a pen from her handbag and held it out. “Just sign it, September, and let’s all be done with it. You and I both know what a mistake it was for your father to open that store—he was as much a businessman as I am a kangaroo. The two of us have equal share in it and I’ve already signed, so all you have to do is—”

  Ember shoved back her chair so abruptly it toppled over behind her, startling the waiter who had come to check if they needed anything else, and the Tweedies, who had gone back to ignoring her but once again choked on their food.

  “No.”

  Marguerite’s face went white. Turtle-like, her head stretched forward on her neck as if she didn’t quite hear it, or couldn’t quite believe it. She quietly repeated, “No?”

  There was a fault line running under Ember’s life, an almost invisible crack slowly and surely gaining pressure year after year. The mounting friction had recently risen to a dangerously high level. One tiny thing could trigger a seismic event that would topple everything in her world, and for the first time she realized what a tightrope she’d been walking—how close she was to losing the only thing she had left, control—in the blink of an eye.

  Never look a gift horse in the mouth.

  Ember knew with crystalline clarity who her gift horse was.

  She turned and ran from the restaurant, leaving a gaping Marguerite and the Tweedies behind.

  “Dante?” Ember called through his apartment door as she knocked. “Are you home?”

  He was; the sound of shuffling feet alerted her first, then he appeared wearing a plaid robe, black socks and a smile. “Ah, la hermosa Americana! Buenos dias, como estas?”

  “Bien, gracias. But English, remember?”

  “Oh!” His hand flew to cover his mouth. “Si! I mean yes!” He straightened his toupee, adopted a strange pose with his hands on his hips and one leg stuck out like it was broken, then in the most terrible John Wayne impersonation she had ever heard, drawled, “How’s it hangin’, pilgrim?”

  That stunned her into silence for a moment. When she recovered enough to speak, she asked, “Dante, why haven’t you asked for my rent again yet?”

  His smile died a quick death. “Er, I, ah…I told you…don’t worry about it—”

  “Don’t worry about it because it’s already been paid, you mean?”

  He sucked his lips between his teeth like someone had just stuck a lemon in his mouth.

  “Dante,” she warned, “don’t lie to me.”

  His nose wrinkled. He blew out a lip-flapping breath, then made a very Gallic shrug, which looked as if it translated to, you got me.

  Already knowing the answer, Ember asked, “Who paid my rent, Dante?”

  He looked left. He looked right. He looked back at her and said, “I can’t tell you, hermosa. That was part of the deal.”

  Ember passed a hand over her face. So—it was true. “We’re changing the deal, Dante. I’m going to pay you for this month and you’re going to give the
money back to whoever paid it.”

  Christian, of course.

  But Dante was already shaking his head no. “Lo siento, but…that is not possible.”

  She could tell by the look on his face that Dante was very serious. He would not be taking her money this month. Well, fine, she’d just repay Christian directly then, after telling him in no uncertain terms to butt out of her financial problems.

  “All right, Dante, forget it. But don’t do anything like this again. The rent is my obligation, okay? Don’t ever take money from anyone but me for my rent.”

  He began to look worried. Hesitantly, he said, “Ah…si…”

  Ember crossed her arms over her chest. “Out with it.”

  There was some fidgeting, some lip-chewing, a little toupee adjustment, then Dante said with regret, “That might present un pequeño problema.”

  Ember’s left eyebrow slid up. “And why would me paying my own rent be a problem?”

  He debated silently for a moment, looking at her with a hesitant expression, as if undecided if he were allowed to tell her something or not. Finally he sighed. “Because technically—that is the correct word, yes?—technically you don’t have any more rent.”

  Oh no. No, no, no, no, no.

  No.

  Ember said carefully, “Dante, please tell me you’re not saying my rent has been paid for the year?”

  Immediately, he brightened. “No! Your rent has not been paid for the year!”

  She heaved a sigh of relief. “Oh thank God. You really scared me for a minute—”

  “Your rent has been paid forever!”

  He was smiling brightly as he said this, and flung his arms out in a “ta da!” gesture. Ember just stared at him, uncomprehending.

  “What does that mean, exactly?” she said through numb lips.

  His smile faded. His arms dropped to his sides. “No more rent for you, hermosa. As long as you live in this building, you never pay rent again. This is very good, yes?”

  Ember’s face had gone red, she knew it by the heat spreading over her cheeks and ears. “No, Dante this is not very good! How could you take money from someone else when the rental contract is between you and me?”