Edge of Oblivion: A Night Prowler Novel, Book 2

by J. T. Geissinger

“Some of us have actual muscle, Lix,” he croaked, sliding very close to the wall of wavering gray fog that lurked in the corners of his vision. Breathing too deeply made the fog roll closer; that knife had punctured a lung. As evidenced by that sickening rattle in his chest.

  At least it had missed his heart. That male on the floor didn’t look so lucky.

  “Shut up, both of you,” Celian snapped. “If we don’t get you to the infirmary fast, you’re going to bleed out before we can sew you up, D.”

  D remembered the last time he’d been sewn up. A faint smile crossed his face.

  “We’ve got to contain the situation,” said Constantine. He eased his shoulder beneath D’s raised arm, took hold of his hand, and hoisted it around his neck, wrapping his other arm around D’s back. On his other side, Celian did the same. “We could have a mutiny on our hands if we don’t handle this right.”

  “Trust me, no one’s going to miss him,” Celian muttered, glancing at Dominus’s body. A pool of blood had seeped from the bullet wound and formed a perfect circle around his head like the gory halo of some biblical devil.

  His daughter might, D thought, then sucked in a breath as pain shot down his spine. Celian and Constantine had taken several steps forward, managing his weight between them. They made their way slowly across the room.

  “Even so, the Legiones might make a move on us,” Constantine said. “We’re going to have to present a united front, be in control, manage what happens next. In other words, take decisive action. Nature hates a vacuum, boys, so let’s not give ’em one.”

  His voice very low, Lix said, “And her?”

  No one had to look to see who he meant. On her knees beside the pale, still male they’d chased at the Vatican, the female rocked back and forth silently, shaking, both hands over her face. Her unbound hair shrouded her naked shoulders and back in gleaming mahogany.

  Celian spoke. “As far as I’m concerned, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. And I think we’ve all seen enough bloodshed. Let them go.”

  D didn’t think that male was going anywhere, but he was unable to speak. Pain had his tongue.

  “Here.” Constantine pulled his gun from his waistband and nudged it into the hand D had wrapped around his shoulder. “Just in case things get ugly on the way to the infirmary.”

  And as soon as he had his fingers curled around the metal grip of the Glock, D heard the advancing echo of boots from far down the corridor. Someone was running to the fovea.

  Of course. The Legiones. They’d been drawn by the sound of gunfire.

  He closed his eyes, trying to conserve strength. And when he opened them again, Eliana was standing in the doorway they were headed to, staring at them in white-faced, open-mouthed shock. Her gaze darted around the room. The chaos. The blood. Her father’s body.

  The gunshot wound in his forehead.

  She glanced back at Dominus, and all the color drained from her face.

  “You,” she breathed, staring at the gun gripped in his right hand. Her gaze, horrified, uncomprehending, skipped back to his. “You!”

  Constantine and Celian froze, and his own heartbeat ground to a standstill.

  “No. No,” he whispered vehemently, chilled as if ice had been injected into his veins. A storm erupted in his body, a howling white squall of dread and panic. She had it all wrong; she thought it was him—

  “No. Eliana! It’s not what you think!”

  But she had backed from the doorway into the deeper shadows of the corridor and, before he could say another word, turned and disappeared.

  Gentle rocking, warmth and softness, the cries of seagulls, and the tang of salt water ripening the air. The sound of water lapping lightly against wood. The scent of tropical rain, sweet and warm.

  Hell, Xander mused, wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d expected.

  Pondering that, he allowed himself to drift on an aimless current of dreamy carelessness, rising and falling with that lovely rocking motion that lulled him so completely. He thought any minute the pitchforks and sulfurous rain would appear, so he didn’t bother to open his eyes. And anyway, the light that glowed red behind his closed lids was a little alarming. Better to put it off for a minute and enjoy the calm before the storm. Or whatever this was.

  A little sound caught his attention. It was nearby, very soft and dark and troubling.

  A sigh.

  An exhalation from some pitchfork-wielding fiend, no doubt, anxious to cart him off to the next circle of hell as soon as he opened his eyes. Well, screw that. He was staying right here. He hadn’t felt this relaxed in years. He clamped his eyes shut so tightly his face crumpled into a scowl.

  And then that little sigh turned into a gasp, fraught with concern.

  The rustle of fabric, the sound of something creeping nearer, a cool touch upon his forehead. He flinched, swearing, and the fiend cried out his name.

  “Xander!”

  Even in hell he recognized that voice. It cut through his dreamy laxity like a knife through butter, and his eyes flew open. And his heart—oh, his heart—

  “You’re awake,” breathed Morgan, leaning close over him with her hair draped all around her face like a veil of burnished, silken bronze.

  If he wasn’t already dead, he was pretty sure he would die of a heart attack.

  “I...don’t...think so,” he murmured, staring up at this beautiful apparition. He reached out and touched a finger to her satin cheek. Her irises burned vivid emerald, that circle of yellow around the pupil blurred just slightly by the moisture welling in her eyes. “This is a wonderful dream, though. Very realistic.”

  She laughed and sobbed at the same time, then pressed the back of a shaking hand against her mouth. She hitched up her dress and sat beside him, and for the first time he realized he was on a bed. In a room. No—a cabin? The sky shone deepest azure through a round porthole edged in brass set high in the wood-paneled wall; the ceiling was painted aqua and populated with dolphins and seaweed and eels slinking through coral. The spoked ship’s wheel clock on the dresser beside the bed read 4:17 p.m.

  “It’s not a dream,” she said, “and here, I’ll prove it to you.”

  Then his beautiful ghost leaned over and pressed her lips against his. When she drew back, they were both out of breath.

  “Well,” said Xander. “I did say it was realistic. Perhaps a little more proof is in order.” He pulled her down to him, ignoring the sudden pain between his shoulder blades, and kissed her hard and deep with his hands pressed against her face, his fingers threading through her hair.

  She broke away first—again—and quietly laughed. “You’re feeling better.”

  “I thought you were a fiend.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Did you now?”

  “And this was hell. I thought I was dead. How am I not dead?”

  Her eyes grew soft. She brushed back his hair from his forehead and smiled. “Well...I sort of saved your life. Again.”

  Xander took a breath. “Oh. Not very manly of me, needing to be rescued so much, is it?”

  “It is an awful lot of work,” she agreed, somberly nodding. Then she lifted a shoulder and dropped her gaze to the knitted azure blanket across his chest. She picked at the material, chewed on her lower lip. Her voice lowered. “Someone has to look after you, though. And since I’m so...fond of you, well, I suppose it might as well be me.”

  As his heart swelled inside his chest, Xander had to work very hard not to smile. He reached for her hand. “We can save each other,” he whispered, and pressed his lips to her knuckles.

  She bit her lip, and that moisture welling in her eyes finally overflowed. Tears tracked down her cheeks. She buried her face in his chest.

  “You found me,” she said, muffled, into the blanket. “You came for me, Xander, you found me—”

  “I’ll always come for you, amada,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “Don’t you know that? You’re my heart. You’re my soul. I’m not going to let a little thing like you being ki
dnapped by a madman and held in his secret underground dungeon keep me from my heart and soul. You’re not getting away from me that easily.”

  She sobbed into the blanket.

  “Hush now, sweet girl.” He gathered her into his arms and held her against him until she quieted and all her tears were spent. “Tell me what happened.”

  She sighed, snuggled closer to him, and began to talk. She told him how the males of the catacombs had helped her, how they’d cared for him in their infirmary, how close he’d come to death. She told him how they’d quashed the rebellion that had stirred when the other members of the colony learned of the King’s death, how they’d installed the one named Celian as the new leader, how the King’s daughter had fled the colony with her brother and a handful of others and had not yet been found.

  “But the best part is,” she said quietly in conclusion, “now that I did what I was sent to Rome to do, I’ve been given a full pardon. And the Queen has honored her promise to me.” She lifted her eyes and gazed at him. Light from the window caught in her hair, warmed the tips of her lashes. “I can go wherever I want. Live wherever I want. I’m free.”

  He stared at her blankly. “I don’t understand.”

  “Dominus. He was the head of the Expurgari. We found him, so...”

  “The head of the Expurgari,” Xander repeated slowly.

  She shook her head. “I’ll explain it all later. Right now you should rest. You look a little pale.”

  He caught her wrist and held it, pulling her closer to him. He sat up in bed and ignored the searing pain along his spine. “You mean—we’re not fugitives? This trip—this boat—”

  “Oh!” she said, startled. “No! God, no, we’re not fugitives. All five of us have been completely cleared.”

  He stared at her. “All five of us.”

  At that exact moment, heavy footsteps pounded over the roof above his head. A smile flitted over Morgan’s lips as she watched him follow the sound with his eyes as it moved overhead, growing softer then louder, thumping down what sounded like a flight of stairs. A dark head popped in the high, round window, then disappeared; someone had jumped up to look in.

  A heavy hand knocked on the door.

  Then to Morgan’s amused “Come in,” Tomás and Mateo burst through the door.

  “Hey, asshole,” Mateo said, smiling. “You look like death warmed over.”

  Tomás nodded a greeting and leaned his huge frame against the wall. “Fuckface.”

  “Bartleby is on deck, making dinner,” Morgan said gently, seeing Xander’s open-mouthed astonishment. “Your friends here are quite the fishermen.”

  “So far I’ve caught blue marlin, yellowfin tuna, wahoo, even sailfish,” Tomás bragged. “Kadavu is amazing!”

  “Kadavu,” Xander repeated, finding it hard to know where to look. His brain wasn’t translating information properly. He had to be hearing this wrong.

  “Fiji,” said Mateo with an eye roll, as if it should have been obvious. “Seventy-five miles of pristine barrier reef with water so clear you can see the bottom of the ocean from the boat. Jungle-covered volcanic hills, mangrove bays, snow-white beaches...what?”

  He trailed off because Xander had closed his eyes. He was sure he was deathly pale.

  Morgan leaned close to his ear. “I told you I always wanted to see a sunrise in Fiji,” she murmured, her hand on his arm. “So now I’ll get to see one. Or...” she giggled, and it made his blood sing, “...maybe two or three.”

  He opened his eyes and saw her devilish grin and began to laugh, a hoarse, shaky sound that hitched in his chest and caught in his throat and made Morgan’s grin falter. His laughter died, and he roughly pulled her against him and buried his face in her hair.

  “Jesus, woman,” he said, ragged, all restraint gone, “do you have any idea how much I love you?”

  She pulled back and gazed down at him, eyes alight. “Probably not as much as I love you,” she whispered, then bent to kiss his lips.

  “Jeez, get a room,” grumbled Tomás, but Xander hardly heard it. Against her protests, he hauled Morgan on top of him and wrapped his arms around her, ignoring the ache between his shoulder blades and in his chest, caution at last thrown to the wind. He heard the cabin door close softly and the sound of footsteps receding.

  “Marry me,” he said between breathless kisses, struggling to rid her of her dress.

  “I doubt there’s a priest on this island,” she replied with a low laugh, then sat up and pulled the dress over her head. It was discarded to the floor, and she lay back against him, her skin warm against his. “There are just beaches and coves and coconut trees. And anyway, you’re in no shape to stand at an altar, my love.”

  He took that as a challenge and pulled her close. “Allow me to demonstrate exactly the shape I’m in.” He took her hand and maneuvered it beneath the covers, to the straining hardness between his legs.

  She laughed again, and it was like honey to his ears, sweet and dark and delicious. “Oh, how I do admire an ambitious man. But you’re still healing. A few more days and then—”

  “And then you will be sore for a week,” he growled, nipping at her neck.

  She allowed him that much, relaxed back against him so he could trail his hands over her bare skin and inhale her scent and kiss her, and all the while she smiled at him like a cat with all the cream.

  “What is that mysterious look of yours, love of mine?” he whispered, stroking her face.

  “Do you notice anything different about me?” she said coyly.

  He let his gaze drift over her naked body. “If I say no,” he said, husky, “how much trouble will I be in?”

  “A lot,” she laughed, “considering you’re the one who put the damn thing on!”

  He frowned and she stretched back her head, gazed at him from beneath her lashes, and trailed her fingers down her throat with a flourish. “Your friend Mateo is quite good with a blowtorch. Didn’t even leave a mark.”

  He inhaled sharply. The collar: it was gone. Feeling a tightness in his chest, he brushed his fingers over her neck, the fine sweep of her collarbones. The blowtorch hadn’t left a mark, but a faint ring of circular bruises the size of his thumb marred the perfect skin just over her jugular on the left side of her neck. He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, disgusted with himself.

  I will never, he thought as a violent rush of love and possessiveness swept through him, do anything to hurt her again.

  He opened his eyes and quietly said, “I was wrong to do that. I’ve been wrong about so much. You’ll have to be patient with me, Morgan, because I’m stubborn and temperamental and I’m going to make stupid mistakes, probably a lot of them. But I swear I’ll do my best to make you happy every single day of your life, if you let me. I will love you, and no other, until I take my last breath, and when I’m dead I’ll keep on loving you. Forever.”

  She swallowed and turned away for a moment, took a few deep breaths. Her eyes closed and then blinked open, and she turned back to him and whispered, “I was wrong about something, too.”

  “What?”

  She smiled and cupped her hand against his face. “There are happy endings for people like us. Welcome to our happily ever after, my love.”

  Then she leaned in and very softly pressed her lips against his.

  Saturday, the twelfth of August, 20—

  Another sweltering day, another endless night. Everything is so different here. It is difficult to adjust.

  My brother and I and a small group of loyalists from the colony have settled near the basilica of the Sacré Coeur in Montmartre, on the top floor of a tall building at the crest of the city’s highest hill. Sometimes we are lost in the clouds here. Sometimes it seems the horizon stretches on forever.

  I find myself often wandering the shadowed crypts of the nearby catacombs, so much more familiar than my new house in the sky. On those wandering walks, my mind is a black tangle of schemes and memories and unanswered questions. Like a ghost I hau
nt the twisting corridors in those silent, dark hours before dawn, my thoughts a sea of hungry rats, chewing holes in my mind, devouring the memory of the naive girl I was. Devouring any shadow of softness that still lingers.

  I wish the hungry rats would eat the memory of him.

  But that is the one thing they leave untouched. Traitorous rats.

  At least I’m not alone; that I don’t think I could bear. I have others here to help me finish the work my father started—and this will be difficult, as his journals were left behind and he never shared his vision with me—others that believe as I do that what he had planned for his people must have been good, that his death must not go unavenged. We are few and they are many, so for now I must be content to stalk the bone-lined corridors of les carrières de Paris while plans are made and alliances are forged.

  While the blueprint for vengeance is drawn.

  “Eliana.”

  She spun from her desk at the sound of the voice, relaxing only when she saw the familiar face at the door, the piercing dark eyes and aquiline nose.

  “You scared me,” she said, irritated. She closed her journal, pushed back the chair, and went to stand at the tall, dormered window. The oppressive heat of the day had given way to an evening thunderstorm; rain peppered the glass, running down the panes in long, silvery tears.

  “I’m sorry, my Queen.”

  He’d taken to calling her that of late. It got on her nerves.

  She spoke to the window, not bothering to turn around. “What is it?”

  “I’ve received word from your father’s lab in Milan. The reports you requested.”

  Now she did turn, so quickly she lost her balance and had to set a hand against the sill to steady herself. “You have them? Where are they?”

  A large manila envelope was produced from behind his back. He held it out, smiling. “Here. Shall we review them together?”

  Eliana took several small, hesitant steps forward, her heart like a hummingbird trapped in her chest. Her father’s reports. This would tell her what he had discovered, what he had spoken of so rapturously—and vaguely—the night he was killed.