Thank God for peripheral vision.
“I’m sorry,” she breathed in a conspiratorial tone, stepping closer, making sure to exaggerate the roll of her hips, “I know you’re probably not supposed to talk and I don’t want to disturb you, but if you could just give me an idea? Maybe”—she coyly twirled a lock of her hair between her fingers—“point me in the general direction?”
He swallowed but said nothing.
Mulish bastard. She pursed her lips. Leisurely, she lifted the lock of hair to her mouth and dragged it back and forth across her parted lips. “Per favore?” she said, very throaty.
His gaze flickered down to her mouth, and his nostrils flared. “Ufficio Scavi,” he blurted, brusque. She didn’t understand and her brows lifted.
His gaze darted right to a small black door recessed in the stone wall perhaps a hundred yards away, beneath a huge statue of a robed woman in traditional habit. Another damn nun.
“Ufficio Scavi,” the guard said again, more forcefully, now staring at her mouth.
“Oh,” she said, understanding. Ufficio—office. Office of the...Scavi? She jumped when the guard answered her in heavily accented English, his voice low.
“I’ll take you.”
Was it her imagination or was there a double entendre there? “Why, I’d just love that,” she purred, gazing up at him through her lashes. She was gratified to see his flush deepen.
He took her by the arm and quickly led her down the wide marble steps and over the worn cobblestones to the Plaza of Protomartyrs around the side of the basilica. They passed beneath an arched corner and went through the squeaking black door of the Ufficio Scavi, which swung shut with an echoing thud behind them. They were in a small stone antechamber, totally unadorned, cool and quiet as a tomb. An arched doorway directly in front of them had steps leading down into a tunnel swallowed in gloom. They were alone.
“Wait,” the guard said, releasing her arm, and pointed to the floor. “Here. First tour at nine.”
“You’ve been so helpful! Thank you so much. Grazie,” Morgan breathed, doing her best impression of a damsel in distress. A damsel whose heart hadn’t recently been ripped—beating and bloody—from her chest. Sweetly smiling, she trailed a finger down the soft folds of the collar of her sweater dress, exposing as if by accident the top swell of her breasts, the cleft between. “May I show you something, since you’ve been so nice?”
The guard blanched. His gaze flickered to the closed door; then he stepped forward and licked his lips as if she were a trussed and roasted Thanksgiving turkey and he hadn’t eaten in years. He lifted his hand to her face, but before he could touch her she had him by the wrist.
Quietly, she said, “Stop.”
Obediently, he froze midstep. His face wiped blank.
“You’re going to answer a few questions, then you will leave this room and forget you ever saw me. Understood?”
The guard stared at her, his blue, blue eyes utterly blank.
“Capisce?” she insisted.
Slowly, he nodded.
“Good,” Morgan said, keeping her grip on his wrist. With her other hand she pulled the medallion from beneath the draped collar of her dress. “Do you know this symbol?”
The guard nodded again.
“What is it?”
“Horus,” he said in a monotone, “Dio della vendetta.”
Dio—God. OK. Vendetta...revenge? “God of revenge?”
The guard frowned a little, concentrating. He said softly, “Sì. Er...vengeance.”
The god of vengeance. It sent a chill down Morgan’s spine. She swallowed around a sudden lump of fear that lodged like a stone in her throat. “Where can I find this symbol in the necropolis?”
“The tomb of the Egyptians,” he intoned, staring at her chest. “Tomb lettered Z; symbol of Horus is painted on the north wall.”
Painted on the wall? “Anywhere else?”
He blinked, slowly lifted his gaze to hers, and with a vague motion of his hand said, “Ovunque.”
Morgan stifled a frustrated sigh. “English, please.”
The guard gazed blankly into her eyes. “Everywhere,” he said, very soft.
“What do you mean, everywhere?” Morgan said sharply, so that her voice echoed off the stone walls.
“Paintings,” he calmly responded, “statues, frescoes, the obelisk in St. Peter’s Square, the pope’s hat—”
“The pope’s hat!” she exclaimed, astonished.
“—wood carvings, tile work, tapestries, stonework—”
“Enough! Stop.”
He fell silent, waiting for her next command, while Morgan tried not to hyperventilate.
Everywhere. The feral Alpha’s symbol was all over the Vatican. Even on—good Lord—the pope’s hat. How? Why?
“I don’t understand. Why would the symbol of an Egyptian god be all over the seat of the Christian church?”
A faint smile curved his lips. “Their gods were here long before ours. We just...” he floundered, searching for a word in English, “...appropriato. Stole them. Reconfigured.”
Morgan’s mouth dropped open, then snapped shut. She didn’t have time for this. “Are there any other entrances to the catacombs?”
He shook his head. “Only in the pope’s private chambers, but there you cannot go.”
Oh, but she could. But at the moment she was at the entrance to the necropolis, so she might as well start here. She gave the guard’s wrist a final warning squeeze and said, “You will return to your post and forget me.”
The guard blinked down at her and wistfully murmured, “Forget you.”
“Sì. Go now. Go.”
He nodded slowly, then turned on his heel, went through the door, and let it swing shut behind him.
The moment he was gone, Morgan turned and made her way down the narrow flight of stairs, her heart pounding, light diminishing behind her with every step. At the bottom of the steps was a series of narrow passageways constructed of red bricks that led off in every direction, lit with dim spotlights at long intervals. The air was humid and stagnant, the ground uneven dirt. Several richly engraved stone sarcophagi were assembled near the entrance, beyond which was a larger main corridor with a map in English and Italian on the wall that showed the various tombs of the necropolis. Feeling excitement mixed with crushing dread, Morgan located the Egyptian tomb on the map and set off in search of it.
She passed tomb after tomb, both large and small, cold, shadowed rooms of brick and earth with stone sarcophagi resting in niches in the walls. Motifs of stags and vases and flowering vines, perfectly preserved, decorated walls and ceilings; remnants of colorful mosaic tiles survived in patches over the floors. The corridor narrowed at length, the brick walls showed more signs of deterioration, the air became clammy and thick. Around another corner, and she began to feel claustrophobic. The ancient walls, now flaked and uneven, pressed close; the light dimmed to a faint greenish hue.
Just as she was beginning to panic that she was lost, the weak light of the entrance to the tomb of the Egyptians appeared around another corner, illuminating the gloom like a phantom in a graveyard.
Her heart in her throat, Morgan stepped hesitantly into the tomb. Six elaborate stone sarcophagi and four empty niches lined the walls of the square mausoleum; several alabaster urns and shards of broken pottery lay in one corner. On the north wall, just as the guard had said, was the painting of Horus, god of vengeance.
It was massive and strangely vivid in the half-light, rich with color and an eerie dimensionality that made it seem to bulge from the wall. A bare-chested warrior with the sunhaloed head of a falcon and huge, flaming wings fanning out from the middle of his back floated over a mob of prostrate worshippers gathered at a riverbank. He held a sword in one hand and a staff in the other, bands of gold surrounded his muscled biceps, a linen garment hung from his hips. But the eyes were by far the most striking of all. Black and piercing above a sharp, elongated beak, they seemed uncannily alive.
/> Morgan took an involuntary step back, dropped her gaze, and saw, in the right corner of the painting, a cutout in the stone roughly the same size and shape as the medallion that hung around her neck.
Her heart pole-vaulted over her breastbone.
Feeling like a character out of Indiana Jones, she unclasped the medallion from her neck and shakily approached the small niche in the wall. Without breathing, she set the medallion flush against the ancient brick and jumped back with a yelp when the lid of the sarcophagus directly behind her popped open with a puff of dust and the low groan of stone on stone.
“Oh, hell, no,” she said into the ancient, sinister hush. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The answering silence was deafening.
She stood in the center of the mausoleum for several minutes, arguing the pros and cons with herself. She’d found what she’d come looking for—possibly—and now she could go back and tell Xander...ask for his help...
If it wasn’t for you, Julian might still be alive.
Right. Xander was the last one who would want to help.
Fighting back the sudden, bitter onslaught of tears, Morgan snapped the necklace back around her neck, strode over to the sarcophagus, and pushed the lid wide open. Peering down, she saw a set of impossibly narrow steps descending into impenetrable blackness. She sat on the edge of the hulking stone coffin and swung her legs over, then, moving as silently as her feet would allow, stepped down into darkness.
D stared down at the folded note in his hand. Change of plans, it read, in the lilting, elegant script he recognized as Eliana’s. Meet before Purgare? Sunken church. One half hour.
He dismissed the blushing young handmaiden who’d brought it with a curt nod that made her blush deepen. As she backed quickly out of the room and fled into the safety of the dark corridor beyond, D slowly unwound the tape around his knuckles.
His bare chest was bathed in sweat, the muscles in his arms and shoulders ached, his breathing was heavy, but he was satisfied that the punching bag he’d been beating the life out of for the past hour had served its purpose. He’d be calmer now, his head clearer.
And he was definitely going to need that.
He left the gym with his duffel bag in hand and went to the adjoining multiroomed thermae, where warm spring waters bubbled up naturally from the bedrock far below. He was alone in the baths at this hour, but he didn’t bother with his usual postworkout soak. He got himself clean as quickly as possible, dried off, and dressed, then, after a quick side trip to stash the duffel in his footlocker in the private quarters of the Bellatorum, set out for the sunken church.
On the way, he burned Eliana’s note with a lighter and let the ashes drift to the ground.
No one would miss him at this hour. The Bellatorum were allowed personal time prior to the Purgare, and in any case, Celian, Lix, and Constantine—all now healed—had decided to play with a quartet of nubile young Electi the King had grown bored with and gifted them for their pleasure.
Our pleasure, he thought grimly. But I’m not interested in anything other than what I’m going to meet now.
Twenty minutes later he’d wound through the maze of catacombs and stood silent in the shadows of the sunken church, waiting for her beside a crumbling stone column next to the corridor that led deep into the bowels of the catacombs he’d just emerged from. He stood there breathing, feeling his heart pump in his chest, feeling anticipation clench the muscles deep in his belly.
He felt ravenous. Exultant. Alive.
He sensed rather than heard her approach. She was silent as midnight but carried with her a tangible current of power, refined yet electric. As she passed the threshold into the sunken church and glanced nervously around, he moved swiftly from his position hidden against the column, grabbed her by the arms, and spun her around, her wrists held tightly behind her in both his hands. She gasped as he pushed his body against hers and held her, pinned, to the wall.
“Demetrius!”
“Tell me again,” he said, very low, his face mere inches from hers, “why I’m risking my hide to be here?”
Panting a little, she stared up into his eyes. Her skin was lucid in the moonlight that spilled over the floor from the small windows high above in the rounded room.
“Because you want to,” she said, breathless.
He stared down at her parted lips, feeling the clench in his belly grow into a burn. “Not good enough,” he said, slowly shaking his head.
“Because...I want you to?”
He cocked his head and considered her, enjoying the heat and softness of her body pressed against his, prolonging the moment. Jesus, she looked good enough to eat. Dressed in tight black leggings, black boots, and a black sweater that hugged every curve, she was probably the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
He lowered his face slowly, watching her eyes widen, watching the pulse in her neck grow jagged. Slowly, softly, he ran the tip of his nose down the column of her throat and inhaled, deeply, against her skin. He felt himself harden, knew she felt it too because her breathing hitched and, subtly, she arched into him.
“I need something more definitive than that, Principessa...” he murmured, letting his lips skim her exposed collarbone as he spoke.
“Oh. In that case, how about this?” she breathed, then leaned forward and took his earlobe between her lips.
D froze as heat detonated in his body. Eliana sucked gently on his earlobe, running her tongue over and around that tiny piece of flesh he had never known had so many nerve endings, then lightly pressed it between her teeth. He pulled away, took her face in his hand, and darkly said, “Oh, little girl, you really shouldn’t have done that.”
Then he lifted her up and tossed her over his shoulder so she hung upside down behind his back. He turned and ambled across the moonlit floor, heading to the door that led outside, into the night.
“Demetrius!” Eliana squealed, pummeling his back with her fists. “Put me down! Put me down this instant!”
He slapped her hard on the bottom and enjoyed her mortified howl.
“Sorry, Your Highness,” he drawled, “but I’m not taking orders tonight.”
She gasped in horror or astonishment, he couldn’t tell which, and D broke into a smile. His arm easily spanning both her thighs, he maneuvered his way through the hidden doorway that led outside and around a thicket of wild raspberries that grew along the rounded wall. Eliana grasped his belt to steady herself as he walked, alternating between pleading and demanding that he let her down.
“Stop squirming or I’ll put you down and take you over my knee,” he threatened, and gave her bottom a soft pinch. She quieted instantly with a sharp intake of breath, and his smile grew wider.
God, this was going to be fun.
On a damp patch of clover around the east wall of the sunken church, he abruptly set her back on her feet. Before she could protest, he put one hand over her eyes—it covered most of her face—and spun her around so her back was against his chest. He pulled her close. “Are you ready?” he murmured suggestively into her ear.
She trembled against him and clutched the arm he’d wrapped around her chest. “Ready for what?” she whispered.
Oh, yes, she was ready. Her voice gave her away. The heat and longing in it flooded him with carnal urges, but he was able to control himself, just barely. Because right now he wanted to give her something she—and everyone with a soul—deserved.
Slowly, he removed his hand from her face. “For Rome.”
She exhaled sharply. Her body fell utterly still.
Before them lay the glorious, decadent labyrinth of humanity’s most magnificent city, the crown jewel of man’s achievement and imagination, the pulsing, vibrant heart of the planet that had beaten for over two and a half thousand years. Renaissance palaces and baroque basilicas, medieval bell towers and Etruscan tombs, a sprawl of tiled rooftops as far as the eye could see washed fairy-dust gold by the huge, orange moon that lazed like a fat pumpkin over the
distant black hills. A huge cloud of starlings rose in a tangle into the star-dusted dome of the sky, flashing quicksilver until they vanished into the horizon, and off in the distance the enormous stone bulk of the Colosseum crouched in the center of it all, striped gold and black like a sleeping tiger.
A little spasm wracked her body, and he looked down into her face. Her eyes were huge, unblinking, filled with tears. He gently turned her to face him.
“Eliana,” he whispered, contrite. Had he done something wrong?
She turned her head and gazed into his eyes. “Thank you,” she said, her voice choked.
His heart melted. A single tear tracked down her cheek, and he brushed it away with his thumb. “Silly girl,” he said gently, “you’re not supposed to cry at the start of a date. Cry at the end, like I do.”
“You, cry?” she scoffed, sniffling and wiping away the moisture around her eyes. She took a breath and straightened her shoulders. “I find that very hard to believe, Mr. Kick Ass.”
D stared down at her in mock indignation. “Mr. Kick Ass? I’ll have you know I’m very tenderhearted, Ms. High and Mighty.”
It was her turn to feign affront. “High and Mighty? I’ll have you know I’m very humble and meek.”
He stepped closer, smiling. “Really? Meek, are you?”
She tilted her head and gazed up at him through her lashes, playful. “Well. Meek for a princess, anyway.”
“Hmmm. That’s what I thought.”
He trailed his fingers over the side of her face and jaw, because he wanted to, because he could, because he loved seeing the effect his touch had on her. Even in the dark he saw her flush.
“And I’m sure you don’t date, in any traditional sense of the word,” she said, less steady than before.
His hand slipped around the back of her neck, and he drew her against him. Her hands lifted to rest lightly against his chest.
“Now why would you think that?” he murmured, lowering his head to hers.
Edge of Oblivion: A Night Prowler Novel, Book 2 Page 28
