Edge of Darkness (A Night Prowler Novel)

by J. T. Geissinger

  She lifted her head, blinking against the bright sunlight that spilled through the tall windows along the east wall, and yawned, looking around. She was in Christian’s vast, sumptuous bed, alone; he was nowhere to be seen.

  The phone rang and rang and rang. She finally spied it, an old-fashioned black rotary model on a desk across the room. She called out Christian’s name and waited, but heard only the shrill ringing of the phone in answer.

  She was nude—her pajamas were probably still shredded on the floor of the library—so she pulled the sheet from the bed and wrapped it around her as she crossed the room. Feeling a combination of anxiety, dread, and ambivalence, she laid her hand on the receiver and stood there debating with herself as the phone continued to ring.

  Should she answer it? Should she go back to bed? Should she pretend to be the maid to whoever was calling?

  Her mind seized on that idea and curiosity got the better of her. She decided that yes, she would be the maid and take a message for whoever was on the line.

  She picked up the phone. Just as she was about to say hello, Christian’s curt voice came on the other end.

  “Yes.”

  He’d answered it from somewhere else in the house. They’d picked up at the same time. She was just about to hang up when she heard a masculine, accented voice, very similar to Christian’s, but darker, much more tense.

  “A goddamn answering machine wouldn’t be too much to ask!”

  “I was outside in the garden. Watching the sunrise. It took me a minute to come in.”

  Christian’s voice was calm and unapologetic, and for some bizarre reason, Ember was proud of him, standing up to whoever this arrogant caller was without even getting ruffled.

  The arrogant caller made a disgruntled sound that also managed to sound full of fondness. “Watching the sunrise? How terribly romantic. Going soft in your old age, brother?”

  So this was Christian’s older brother, Leander. Ember’s fingers tightened around the phone. She had the sense to press the mute button, so no sound could be heard on her end. There was no way she was hanging up now.

  “You have no idea,” replied Christian.

  There was a pause as Leander absorbed that. Then he said, “I got your message. So you found the son of a bitch.”

  Ember’s heart screeched to a stop inside her chest.

  Christian softly exhaled and made a noise of agreement.

  “Tell me everything.”

  There was a command in Leander’s voice, gentle but absolute, with a note of assumed compliance. Clearly, this was a man used to being obeyed.

  “I caught the scent purely by accident. I’ve been near the spot before, but the wind was right last night, and I got lucky. They’re in an abandoned bunker complex in the hills above the city.”

  “Bunker?” Leander sounded surprised.

  “A remnant from the Spanish Civil War.” Christian’s voice turned grudgingly admiring. “It’s perfect, actually. Good visibility from within, well-concealed from the outside, easy to protect. There are probably hidden exits all over the place, too. And, from what I was able to gather from the Internet, the network of tunnels and chambers beneath those bunkers are extensive. There’s plenty of room for them to grow.”

  “But how are they keeping out of sight? A place like that seems like it would be crawling with tourists, history buffs—”

  “The government cordoned off the whole area with barbed wire decades ago. Apparently there are unexploded land mines all over the place, left over from the war. They don’t have enough money to do the necessary clearance and cleanup, so they just blocked it from public access.”

  “Jesus,” said Leander. “How long can a land mine stay live?”

  “Not sure. The government’s plan is just to leave the area untouched until all the mines are defunct, but in the meantime—”

  “It’s a perfect hiding place for a nest of rats,” Leander finished, his voice hard.

  “Exactly. And since they can smell where any live munitions are and avoid them, there’s no danger for their colony, but anyone else who might venture near—kaboom!”

  There followed a long, tense silence. Ember held her breath, hoping neither of them could hear her thundering heartbeat through the phone line.

  “Are you…taking care of it tonight, then?”

  Leander sounded brusque, but beneath his businesslike tone, Ember heard the raw current of anguish. Taking care of it…she assumed that meant killing Caesar. Ember’s hands shook so badly it was difficult to hold the phone to her ear.

  Christian made another soft exhalation. “No, tomorrow night. Everything is ready, but I can’t…I need one last day.”

  Leander’s swallow was loud enough to be heard clear as if he’d uttered something. His voice very low, he said, “I understand.”

  “No, actually you don’t.”

  “Christian—”

  “I’ve met someone.”

  Those three words were blurted out, throbbing with emotion, and they took both Ember and Leander equally by surprise. There was a long, cavernous silence.

  “A woman,” Christian began to explain, but Leander cut him off.

  “Dear, sweet God in heaven, are you insane?”

  He was obviously horrified—horrified and furious. The words were shouted, reverberating with condemnation.

  But Christian was having none of his brother’s anger. He snapped, “Yes, I’m insane! Because sane people don’t frequently volunteer for suicide missions!”

  And with that, the bottom fell out of Ember’s world.

  She sank silently to her knees with the sheet clutched in her fist, frozen, blind, deaf except for those two words, repeating themselves over and over inside her mind.

  Suicide mission.

  Suicide mission.

  Like the pieces of a dark, twisted puzzle, it all clicked into place. All the little things he’d said, hints of his plan and purpose, the research she’d done on the Internet, the look on his face, the look in his eyes when he told her she’d be taken care of for the rest of her life. Now it all made perfect, terrible sense.

  He was here to kill the man who’d killed the pope, she knew that. But—according to eyewitness accounts from the Swiss Guard who’d attempted to gun Caesar down—he couldn’t be killed. He’d been riddled with dozens upon dozens of bullets and had simply revived within seconds with a smile.

  So how did you kill a man who couldn’t be killed? Incinerate him in a super-heated fire? Melt him in molten steel? Blow him to smithereens in a huge explosion?

  She didn’t know. But if a gun wouldn’t work, it had to be something far more violent, something that would obliterate all traces of a form that could simply regenerate itself when damaged.

  “Anything that can be made can be unmade; it’s a natural law. Unfortunately, sometimes Nature needs a helping hand…and someone willing to get those helping hands dirty.”

  Christian had given her this terse explanation when she’d broached the subject on one of their walks. By his dark tone and even darker glower she’d understood that was the end of the conversation, but then he’d sighed and stared off into the distant horizon. He took her hand and an expression of quiet melancholy settled over his features, replacing the glower. Then in a soft, haunting voice, he’d added, “Sometimes sacrifices have to be made for the greater good.”

  “Sacrifices? Like what?” she’d asked sharply, hearing something in his tone. He’d looked at her and smiled, shaking his head as if dispelling an unpleasant thought.

  “Like being away from you when all I want to do is spend every minute by your side.”

  He kissed her then, a soft press of his lips against hers before he pulled away, but it was enough to distract her. And his words were enough to flatter her into dropping the subject.

  But now she realized the sacrifice Christian had been talking about…was him.

  Whatever he had planned for Caesar, whatever mechanism he’d decided could kill an unkil
lable man, it would also take his own life in the process.

  And he was going to do it tomorrow.

  Tomorrow.

  A hot whirlwind of panic descended on her. Shaking uncontrollably in shock, she sagged against the desk, unable to support her own weight.

  Leander exploded. “Jesus, Christian! You’re involved with a human woman? Of all the stupid things to do! How much does she know—”

  “She’s trustworthy!” Christian shouted back. “She’d never do anything to put me in danger—”

  “It’s not just you—it’s the rest of us, too! How do you know she isn’t some kind of spy, trying to get information about the rest of the colonies—”

  “For fuck’s sake, Leander! Give me some credit!”

  “There’s a huge bounty on all our heads, Christian! You think some human is going to pass up the opportunity to cash in—”

  “You’re talking about the woman I love!”

  It was a primal thing, those seven screamed words, and Ember’s body reacted to them on a purely primal level. She went cold then hot. Sweat broke out over her entire body. Her heart hammered against her breastbone and her chest constricted so tight she had to fight to breathe. It was only when she felt hot wetness dripping onto her bare leg that she realized she was crying.

  Leander and Christian were both breathing hard, silent, the tension between them thick and sharp as knives. Finally Leander’s voice, deadly soft, cut the silence.

  “And this woman who you love—does she know why you’re there? Does she know there’s a ticking bomb over your head?”

  Christian didn’t answer.

  “Right. So what’s going to happen to her once you’re gone?” His voice turned caustic. “Let’s assume for an idiotic moment that you’re right; she’s trustworthy. She won’t tell anyone anything, all our secrets are safe with her. Have you given any thought to what your death might do to her?”

  His voice cracking, Christian said, “She’ll be taken care of. I’ve made all the arrangements. This house is going to be hers—my inheritance will go to her—”

  “So she’s a gold digger, then? All she cares about is your money?”

  Leander was being an ass, but Ember knew the point he was trying to make. And so did Christian, evidenced by his anguished, hollered answer.

  “I KNOW IT’S WRONG, ALL RIGHT? I know it’s fucked up and she’ll get hurt and I’m the biggest, most selfish asshole in the world, but I didn’t mean for it to happen! What the hell do you want me to say, Leander? I didn’t mean for it to happen, but I fell in love with her! She makes me feel alive! She makes me feel like my life wasn’t a complete waste! She makes me happy—you can understand that, can’t you? She makes me happy the way Jenna makes you happy—was there ever any choice for you that you wouldn’t fall in love with her? Did you have any control over that? Did you tell your heart, ‘No, not going to go there, it’s stupid and dangerous?’ Because believe me, I tried! And it didn’t fucking work!”

  After Christian’s outburst, Leander’s silence felt deadly. He quietly asked, “And she feels the same way about you?”

  There was a pause filled by the sound of Christian’s labored breathing. He whispered, “Yes.”

  “Then I feel sorry for her.”

  Leander’s tone had entirely changed. Vanished was the sarcasm, the anger and outrage, and in its place: weariness, and a bitter kind of disappointment. “Because I’d rather cut off my own arm than do anything to hurt my woman. But you were willing to let her fall in love with you, knowing there was no future for the two of you, knowing being with you would put her in danger, knowing full well there was nothing in it for her but pain. You, brother, are a prick.”

  “I know.” Christian’s voice broke. He sounded on the verge of tears. “And I hate myself, believe me. But I just couldn’t stay away. I can’t…I can’t breathe without her, Leander. I tried, I tried so hard to let her go. But I couldn’t. My heart didn’t give me a choice.”

  There was a low, muttered curse, a long, aggravated sigh, then more silence. Finally, sounding resigned, Leander asked, “How can I help?”

  Christian drew a few ragged breaths and Ember imagined him standing there with his jaw tight and his beautiful face flushed, running his hand through his thick dark hair. He said hoarsely, “Afterwards—when it’s done—she’ll need support. She doesn’t have family…she’ll need—”

  “We’ll be there,” was his brother’s instant reply.

  “God…thank you Leander.” The relief in Christian’s voice was palpable, but Ember barely heard it over the howling ice storm inside her skull.

  Christian was going to die.

  Tomorrow.

  Impossible! her mind screamed, reeling and recoiling from the horror of it. And then, as Christian and Leander continued to talk, their conversation fading from her hearing as if a dial had been turned down, Ember was gripped but the sudden, fierce conviction Christian was not going to die.

  Because she was going to save him.

  An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. Her own life in trade for his. Then maybe, finally, her soul would be free.

  She would find out what his plan was, and do it herself.

  Ember waited until Christian and Leander disconnected their call, then with shaking hands she slowly returned the phone to its cradle. She knew if he found her like this, he would immediately be able to tell something was wrong, so she forced herself up, climbing to her feet by dragging herself up the desk with arms like rubber, and walked unsteadily into the bathroom. She shed the sheet on the floor, turned on the water, and stood under the spray, not knowing whether it was hot or cold, if she was burning or freezing, because all her limbs had gone strangely numb under the crushing weight of her new resolve.

  Save him.

  Yes, that’s exactly what she was going to do.

  Disappointment was not something Thirteen was accustomed to, but as he stood in the slanting, sun-dappled light of the unfinished Sagrada Família cathedral’s central nave, and stared up at the soaring columns, designed to look like a forest of trees rising from the floor to the vast, vaulted ceiling above, he felt its ugly sting, and was not pleased.

  Today had not gone well.

  First he’d been delayed at the hotel by a group of odd men who silently milled around the lobby like a swarm of restless sharks. He’d barely pressed through their sinister, black-clad bulk and made it to the street where he’d hoped to catch a taxi, when they’d exited the hotel en masse and shoved roughly past him into a cavalcade of black SUVs with dark tinted windows that pulled around the corner in a coordinated line and screeched to a stop at the curb. The line of bulky cars idled for a few more minutes, effectively blocking traffic on the narrow street, until another man appeared through the revolving glass doors of the hotel.

  Thirteen narrowed his eyes at this new arrival. Big, bald, blinding white as snow on sunlight, he had burn scars on one side of his grim face and walked with a determined, rigid gait, as though in pain but trying not to show it.

  Intrigued, Thirteen watched as the big albino climbed into the first SUV and drove away with the cavalcade following behind like ducklings following their mother, all in a row. He went back into the hotel and discreetly inquired at the front desk about the men who’d just left.

  “Sacerdotes,” came the response from the clerk. “Desde el Vaticano.”

  If those were priests from the Vatican, he was Mickey Mouse.

  But he decided to investigate that later, and finally hailed a taxi to take him to his first stop of the day: the catacombs beneath the Església de Sant Just, one of the city’s oldest Christian churches, dating from the fourth century. Much smaller than those beneath Paris where the creatures he hunted once lived, these catacombs were darker and narrower and ultimately a bust.

  That was just his first stop. There were many, many underground hiding spots on his list.

  Over the past few days he’d explored the parts of the subway that had collapsed int
o a sinkhole and been abandoned. He explored the sewer system, the stone quarry, the archeological digs that exposed an ancient, subterranean Visigoth town. He’d searched three more churches, two cathedrals, and a castle, all rumored to have catacombs or large underground fortifications, but none of which did.

  And now it was just before sunset and he stood empty-handed in the half constructed Sagrada Família with a knot of tourists chattering in a dozen different languages, and he was not happy.

  He sighed and reached into his coat pocket. From it he withdrew a typed list, sent to him from the Chairman. There were half a dozen locations beneath those he’d crossed out so far, and the last one on the list looked interesting. Spanish Civil War bunkers, it read, with map coordinates beside it. He decided to try that one first tomorrow.

  When he arrived back at the hotel, he was surprised to find the desk clerk he’d spoken to in the morning conferring quietly with two uniformed officers of the municipal police. Turning to another guest who had stopped near the door to stare at the pair of officers, Thirteen asked, “What’s going on?”

  To which the guest replied with his upper lip curled in distaste, “Some sicko strangled an animal and dumped it in the pool out back. Apparently it had been floating there for days before the gardener found it, bloated as hell.” Thirteen knew the pool had been closed for the winter; the little sign on the front desk attested to that. The guest—a man in his early fifties, with short gray hair and the doughy paunch of someone who enjoys too much food and too little exercise—added, “Can you believe it?”

  In fact, Thirteen had no problem believing it. People did all kinds of strange things. His curiosity piqued, he asked, “What kind of animal?”

  With a quizzical look in his direction, the man replied, “A goat.”

  Then he walked away, while Thirteen mused over the kind of person who would strangle a goat and dump it into a public pool. A sick person no doubt—but a goat seemed an odd choice. Why not a cat, or a dog, something a little easier to come by in the middle of a city, and definitely more discreet than a large, ornery farm animal?