Edge of Oblivion: A Night Prowler Novel, Book 2

by J. T. Geissinger

  D shook his head, bewildered by her beauty, by the sweet, loving look on her face. “Not if you don’t want me to,” he answered. He was rewarded by that brilliant smile again.

  “Well, maybe just until we figure out...how...how we’re going to...”

  She faltered, blinking, and he laid his head against her chest and closed his eyes. Her heartbeat thumped strong and even and calmed the burning fire in his chest.

  “Don’t,” he whispered, inhaling the scent of her skin. “Please don’t.”

  He knew there was only one way they could ever be together. Only one thing would cure what ailed them, and he couldn’t bear to think of it right now. Because the therapy would most probably kill the patient.

  She took pity on him, he thought, because she sighed and then fell silent. “All right,” she said after a moment. She pulled away from him and stood, smoothing her sweater, pushing back a strand of choppy dark hair from her face. Without looking at him she said, “Back to Hades, then.”

  He stood. With a swift glance in his direction, she turned and made her way to where the bike was parked, and he followed her, silent. She waited for him to swing his leg over the seat and start the bike, then she grasped his arm, stepped astride, and settled in behind him.

  On the long, cold ride back to the sunken church, Dominus couldn’t help the feeling that though he was happier than he’d ever been, something, somehow, was about to go terribly wrong.

  The first of the screams echoed faintly down the long corridor just as Constantine pulled himself out of the nubile young female and collapsed, naked and panting, beside her on the pillow-strewn bed.

  He listened for the sound again, that far-away, poignant scream of anguish, but it didn’t come, and he thought he must be imagining things. Living in the land of evernight had a way of doing that to you.

  It’s too damn pink in here, he thought, irrationally irritated, looking around at the ultrafeminine decor used throughout the harem. He’d been here for over four hours, and he was sore and chapped and badly dehydrated, itching to get away from the overload of pastel. Even the damn ceiling was hung with blush fabric, sheer, gossamer panels that drifted overhead like rosy clouds and fell down to shroud the oversize bed. He felt stifled, a little panicky, as if staying one second longer in this cotton-candy room would cause his own skin to become stained pink.

  What was wrong with him? He’d just enjoyed the most energetic female he’d had in years, the cream of the King’s crop, so to speak, still lying beside him in a sweaty stupor, but he felt no satisfaction. He felt, actually, like getting up and tearing something to shreds.

  He’d been feeling like that a lot lately. Especially every time he laid eyes on Dominus.

  “That was amazing,” the female purred. He realized without regret that he didn’t know her name. She rolled lazily to her side and rested her hand on his chest. “Fancy another go—”

  But before she could finish, Constantine jerked upright in bed and spat, “Quiet!”

  She huffed indignantly and pulled away. “Asshole,” she muttered, rising from the bed in a snit. She pushed through the panels of fabric, bent, and snatched her gown from the floor, where he’d left it, torn hastily from her body, hours ago. “You Bellatorum think you’re so special—”

  “Quiet, I said!”

  There it was again. The scream. He hadn’t imagined it after all.

  “What the fuck?” he whispered, eyes trained on the arched doorway on the far side of the chamber.

  The bedroom, used only when the King made a visit, was one of several clustered together around the central hub of the harem where the Electi lived in boring, sumptuous leisure. Lix and Celian were in the two rooms beside his, and as he leapt from the bed and pulled on his pants, he heard Celian’s voice from the doorway, dark as the corridor outside.

  “Constantine.”

  “Yep. Coming.”

  He finished dressing and left the room without a backward glance. Lix and Celian, both radiating tension, were already dressed and waiting in the narrow corridor for him.

  “Sounds like it’s coming from the fovea,” Celian said, low. He hadn’t bothered with a shirt, and the huge muscles of his arms flexed as he shot a glance down the long, shadowed corridor winding toward the King’s chambers.

  “One of Dominus’s playthings?” asked Lix. He ran a hand through his long, disheveled hair, following Celian’s gaze. “He just picked up two new ones this week—”

  “That sound like a human to either of you?”

  No. It most certainly did not. Human screams could never reach that pitch. But Constantine couldn’t tell if it was male or female...

  The three of them looked at each other.

  “Where’s D?” Celian finally said.

  “We, uh,” Lix shot a nervous glance in Constantine’s direction, “we didn’t want to tell you. In case Dominus found out—you wouldn’t get in trouble. Since you’ve just healed...from last time...”

  Celian’s face hardened. “In case Dominus found out what, exactly?”

  “D is with the principessa,” Constantine answered, and took a step back when the heat of Celian’s anger pulsed over him like a furnace with its door blown off.

  “Eliana?” he hissed, eyes flashing. “What the hell is he doing with her?”

  “I’m not exactly sure,” said Constantine, holding Celian’s furious gaze, “but I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

  The scream came again, a high, sustained note of pain from somewhere far off in the darkness of the catacombs. All three of them froze, listening.

  Celian said, “I have a very bad feeling about this. Be ready for anything.”

  And with Lix and Constantine hard on his heels, he set off at a dead run toward the fovea and the high, wavering screams.

  Running as fast as his feet would take him, Xander sprinted across the worn cobblestones of St. Peter’s Square, heading directly for the portico of the basilica and the bronze masterpiece Door of Death, carved with images of a crucified Christ and the Virgin Mary ascending to heaven.

  He Passed straight through it just as a pair of Swiss Guards leapt to stop him from their posts at the soaring marble columns that flanked the door. He heard their shouts from outside, growing fainter as he ran into the center of the vast, shadowed cathedral. Past the nave, past the baptistery, past the transepts with their haloed, blank-eyed statues of the founding saints in stone niches, his boots striking loudly over the elaborate inlaid floor.

  He came to a sliding halt near the chapel of St. Sebastian, brought up short by a twist in his heart.

  Here, sang the ghostly, lilting tune of the Blood tie that had drawn him across the city.

  Panting, heart pounding, he slowly approached the chapel. It was as before when he and Morgan had tried, unsuccessfully, to locate the Alpha when he’d been inside her head. Lighted casket with the body of a long-dead pope beneath the towering mosaic of the martyrdom of St. Sebastian, baroque paintings in the cupola and corbels, faint stench of decay and death.

  Dark, disembodied tremor of feral Ikati everywhere.

  He combed over the entire chapel, searching frantically, but there was nothing, no one, no hidden entry or secret passage or door, just that magnetic pull of their connection.

  “Morgan!”

  He shouted it at the top of his lungs because he couldn’t think of what else to do. It fractured into a thousand parroted cries of her name that seemed to take on a life of their own, taunting his ears, mocking him as they reverberated through almost six acres of yawning space, bouncing off marble and glass and stone. He was so close; she was somewhere nearby, terrified, and he couldn’t find her, he didn’t know where to look, he had to do something—

  From somewhere far beneath his feet, the faintest, faintest echo of a scream reached his ears.

  Xander leapt back as if the floor had burned him. He stood staring down, arrested, his heart frozen solid in his chest.

  On the floor in the middle of the chapel w
as painted a colorful coat of arms, surrounded by a circle of Greek lettering. It featured a pair of crossed keys above a golden shield that depicted the image of an olive branch–bearing dove with a trio of fleurs-de-lis. Floating above the shield was a crown.

  And just above that, painted in bold strokes of black and gold, was the all-seeing Eye of Horus.

  Xander dropped to his knees and pressed his shaking hands flat against the cold marble.

  Beneath. Below. Underground. But—how?

  The scream came again, and the how no longer mattered. All that mattered was Morgan, and she was somewhere down there, beneath his feet.

  Just as a group of armed Swiss Guards burst through a side door near the entrance to the basilica, Xander closed his eyes, concentrated, and was swallowed like a stone dropped into water by the ancient marble floor of the church.

  Someone far beyond the brimstone sea was controlling her muscles. Someone beyond the sea chanted a refrain of burn, burn, burn, and because of him she was smoking, she was blistering, her flesh had all melted away.

  “Xander,” Morgan moaned, voice raw from screaming.

  “Oh, yes,” said the demon controlling her body, stoking the fire that crisped her bones, “I imagine he’ll be along anytime now. Perhaps I should revive you a bit for your reunion.” He chuckled, a sound like red-hot pokers stabbing through her ears. “We wouldn’t want you to miss the unhappy ending, now would we?”

  Suddenly the fire dimmed and she was ripped panting and coughing from the scalding brimstone lake to find herself chained naked—unharmed, all in one piece—to a rounded stone wall.

  “Welcome back, Morgan,” Dominus said, smiling serenely. “And how are we feeling?”

  The room spun. Dark and circular, it sported black walls so high the ceiling was lost in shadow. It felt very much like being at the bottom of a well. A blood-spattered well, because all along the walls from eye level down were smeared dark trails of crimson, some old and flaking, some bright and hideously fresh.

  The room was devoid of ornament save for a huge rusted metal rack drilled into the stone from which dangled a sadist’s collection of playthings. Steel and leather and wire whips, chains and pokers and saws, masks and knives and metal things she couldn’t name but recognized as implements of unspeakable atrocities nonetheless.

  Morgan stared at the tools and the splatters of gore on the walls. Her mind began to clear. The enormity of the situation edged in.

  “That was really a rhetorical question,” Dominus mused, stepping closer. “I won’t make you answer it.” He lifted his hand and very gently, as Morgan shrank back against the rough, frigid rock, caressed her bare breast.

  Her wrists were shackled overhead with what felt like steel or iron; her ankles sported the same. But she was still able to move her body. And as he stroked her and watched her writhe, intently watched the disgust and fear and anger play over her face, Morgan realized he could have simply held her frozen in place with his mind. But the lust burning bright in his eyes told her that he found the physical display of her fear so much more arousing.

  She stilled, closed her eyes, and swallowed back the vomit rising in her throat.

  Fuck him. Fuck. Him. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of watching her squirm.

  “Oh, Morgan,” he sighed, and she heard the exasperation in his voice. “Honestly, this is beginning to become tiresome.”

  And he slapped her across the face with so much force she tasted blood.

  “Touch her again,” shouted a furious voice from behind him, “and I’ll eat out your fucking heart!”

  Morgan sobbed, Dominus spun around, and Xander leapt, snarling, from the shadows of the opposite wall.

  Then everything happened at once.

  With the force of runaway trains colliding from opposite directions, they smashed into each other and fell in a bellowing tangle to the floor, trading vicious punches, howling like rabid wolves, an unholy noise that reverberated through the room. They rolled over and over until they hit the rack of whips and knives and chains. With a terrible squealing shriek of buckling metal, the whole thing wrenched from the wall and came crashing down on top of them.

  Three huge males appeared in the doorway to her right. They skidded to a stop as they saw Dominus and Xander grappling beneath the pile of instruments and the ruins of the rack. A fourth male—bald, pierced, and tattooed—appeared in the arched doorway on the opposite side of the room. He took in the scene in one swift glance and froze. His hard face blanched; his expression turned incredulous, then, strangely, elated.

  Dominus leapt clear of the debris and landed a dozen feet away, crouched and snarling, his attention still focused on Xander, who had thrown off the crumpled rack and struggled to his feet in the middle of the debris. When Dominus spied the bald male on the opposite side of the room, a look—savage, bloodthirsty—passed between them.

  “You didn’t tell me he was immune to mind control!” Dominus screamed, teeth bared.

  The male stared back at him, hatred darkening his face. “I didn’t tell you a lot of things.”

  Dominus stared at him for one fleeting, suspended moment. Then, horrified, he whispered, “Eliana.”

  With the suddenness of a switch being thrown, the temperature in the room dropped thirty degrees. Ice formed on the walls, rose in long, crackling white fingers up the black stone. Morgan’s breath frosted out in pale clouds in front of her face. The air itself began to shiver and hum.

  Then something happened.

  It was like a detonation. All the air sucked into a tight core and then exploded, lightless and silent, in a blast that ripped through the room. It flung the tattooed male back against the wall with devastating force. He was suspended there for a moment, spread-eagle, gulping ragged breaths, his huge body twitching. Dominus pulled a small dagger from his belt and flung it across the room.

  With a sickening pop, it sank deep into the male’s chest. He slid down the wall and crumpled to the ground.

  As one, the three males at the door let out a deafening roar of fury. The bare-chested one and the long-haired one launched themselves across the room and landed, sliding into a jolting stop, against the stone wall beside the wounded male. Their companion, a beautiful male with classically perfect features, stood rigid in the doorway, staring in horror at the scene. He looked toward Dominus and Xander—who was now well clear of the debris and crouched to pounce on Dominus—and reached into the waistband of his pants and pulled out a handgun.

  “Xander!” Morgan screamed.

  And just as Xander spun to heed her warning, Dominus snatched a wicked-looking blade from the mess of weapons on the floor and plunged it into his back.

  Impossible! her heart screamed. Then her voice rose to echo it, ripping its way out of her like a thing with claws, gutting her as it went. She screamed and screamed and watched in helpless horror as Xander sank to his knees, lips parted in surprise, wide eyes focused on her face.

  “I told you, Morgan,” snarled Dominus, teeth bared as he glared at her. A fine spray of Xander’s blood was misted across the pristine white linen of his shirt. “I told you I win!”

  “That’s what you think,” said a hard voice from her right.

  Then there was a thunderous crack of noise near her head, a flash of light, a wave of hot, pressurized air and the smell of gunpowder. Dominus staggered back several steps and a small, perfect hole appeared in the center of his forehead. For a moment he looked confused. From the hole trickled a tiny rivulet of blood. He touched a finger to it.

  Looked at his hand in incomprehension.

  Frowned.

  Then slowly pitched backward and fell unmoving to the floor.

  A few feet away, Xander wavered on his knees, fell forward onto his hands. Blood from the wound in his back had rained an inkblot pattern over the backs of his legs and the stone on which he knelt. His face was white, white as the frost on the walls.

  “Xander!” Morgan screamed, straining against the wrist re
straints. “Xander, no!”

  The male in the doorway beside her tucked the gun into his waistband and came to stand in front of her. “Paenitet,” he said, gazing at her with those black, black eyes. “I’m sorry. We are not all like him.”

  He unchained her, snapping the restraints circling her wrists and ankles as if they were twigs instead of iron. As soon as she was free she ran, sobbing and nearly blinded by tears, to Xander and flung her arms around his neck. She heard his sharp inhalation, heard the faint, faint sound inside his chest.

  “You were right, I’m afraid,” he murmured, pressing his face to her hair. He slumped sideways and she caught him, eased him down to the cold stone. He gazed up at her, pale and solemn, as she cradled his head. “About happy endings. I should have known it would end like this.” His lips, so full and soft, lips she’d kissed with dark, dark greed, curved to a wry smile. “I’m not the hero. I don’t save the day.” His eyelids fluttered, his voice grew faint. “I don’t get the girl.”

  “No, no, no, no, no.” She kept repeating it, sobbing hysterically as blood bright red and warm began to pool beneath her. “Xander, please, stay with me, stay with me!”

  “I wasn’t going to do it,” he murmured, gazing up into her eyes. “You know that, don’t you? I wasn’t ever going to...hurt you.” He drew a long, shuddering breath, and his voice dropped to the barest of whispers.

  “I could never hurt you. I love you too damn much.”

  Then his eyes closed and his head dropped to the floor. With three pairs of hands on his arms, back, and shoulders, D was lifted to his feet.

  “Fuck, you’re heavy,” muttered Lix from behind him. “What’ve you got in your pockets, rocks?”

  He didn’t recognize the wheeze that came out of his throat as his own. It sounded like the death rattle of a very old, very sick man. The knife embedded in his chest sent out wave upon wave of excruciating pain, blood flowed hot and fast down his chest, the room had lost its shape. He was helpless to stand without support, as all the strength had left his legs.