J. Geissinger - Edge of Oblivion

In a sinuous, pale gray plume of mist, he rose into the air and caught the heated updraft of wind from the boulevard below. He used it to lift him, riding it until he was far above the Colosseum, far enough that anyone looking up would see what appeared to be a small cloud, if oddly swift. Beneath him Rome was laid out in glittering splendor, bedecked in shimmers of copper and gold. The streets were pulsing arteries filled with traffic, snaking away in all directions in streamers of red and white.

Above him was the night sky, sapphire dark, dusted with stars.

And there, standing fixed on the sidewalk as pedestrians parted around her like flowing water around a rock, stood Morgan.

Even from this distance he saw her shock, her blank disbelief. She’d gone pale, almost as white as her blouse. She’d felt his Shift; that much was obvious. Had he lips he would have laughed out loud.

Yes, I can Shift to more than just panther, meu caro. I have my mother to thank for that.

He pushed through the atmosphere, up and forward, flying, easy as air, knowing without a doubt that at this exact moment she was cursing his name and recalculating plans. No matter. She could run, she could hide, but she wasn’t getting away.

Ever.

He kept well above as she turned and began to push her way through the throngs of chattering tourists and strolling lovers and elderly women in head scarves and sensible shoes heading out to evening mass. He felt curious and unhurried, the luxuries of self-confidence, and tried to keep out of easy sight as he tailed her, camouflaging himself with varying degrees of success around belfries and chimneys, in the foliage of trees. She kept looking up and behind as she ran but never stopped or even slowed her pace.

She went north, keeping to well-traveled and well-lit streets, darting in and out of churches and trattorias and coffee shops, entering in the front and exiting the back or some other side door, trying to shake him. It was amusing, and he found himself hoping it wouldn’t soon end.

He was having something like—fun.

Then she ran down a flight of steps into an underground entrance to the Metro and he began to worry.

He flashed down the steps behind her, startling a bunch of chortling pigeons on the rail into shrieking flight. He followed the sight of her bobbing dark head—easily identifiable from behind with that fall of shining dark hair that gleamed like sunlight on water, so different from all the others crowding around—into one of the sleek silver cars just as its doors were closing. He flattened himself against the ceiling, spread as thin as he could go around the fluorescent tubes that illuminated the car.

It was packed. Morgan was nowhere in sight.

“Terribly foggy in here,” remarked a white-haired man in Italian, squinting up at the ceiling from his plastic seat below.

“It’s your eyes,” replied his dour wife, waving a dismissive hand at him. “How many times do I have to tell you to get new glasses?” She fumbled around in a lumpy knit handbag, came up with an eyeglass case, and handed it to her husband without another word. Xander took the opportunity to slink away, molecule by molecule, over cold metal and hard gobs of dried gum, toward the rear sliding door.

Morgan wasn’t in the next car. Or the next.

He didn’t begin to really panic until the third stop, after he’d gone through every car on the line and hadn’t found her. Oddly, he found no scent of her anywhere except near the door where she’d entered. As he floated unseen overhead, listening to a pair of pimply teenagers argue the pros and cons of rap versus metal, it hit him.

Morgan had gotten on and off at the same stop.

As he waited for what seemed an eternity, spread thin as smoke against the graffitied tile wall on the Metro platform for the next car that would take him back to the Barberini Fontana di Trevi, Xander began to reevaluate the situation.

Morgan had always wanted a tattoo.

Nothing big, nothing that could be seen by the casual observer, and nothing silly. She wanted it to mean something, something special and soulful and not an idle decoration like a butterfly or a heart.

Not that she’d ever seen a butterfly or heart tattoo. Not in person. Those kinds of whimsies were not allowed in a place like Sommerley, where every duty was to the tribe. Your life and your soul and even your flesh belonged to them and them alone. A tattoo, to most of her kith and kin, would be an abomination. Something profane, something to mar their sacred birthright: beauty.

Something forbidden.

Which was precisely why she felt the need to get one.

“ Buonasera ,” purred the young man behind the glass counter, sizing her up with eager eyes. He was tall and stooped with greasy skin, hair that badly needed washing, and breath like he’d been on a three-day bender, which she could smell from where she stood. She smiled at him, pretending not to notice.

“Buonasera.”

The shop was small and lit by flickering fluorescent lights in vivid blue and yellow and purple that lent a night circus atmosphere, surreal and dreamy. Several leather chairs lined one wall; hundreds of sample tattoos lined the others. Aside from the man behind the counter, she was the only one in the shop.

All in all, it was perfect.

He moved out from behind the glass counter and came to stand near—too near. His gaze never lifted from the level of her chest. He said something else in Italian that she didn’t understand, a question.

“Tattoo?” She pointed to her right hip. “Here?”

He let his gaze rove down from her chest to her hip. “ Sì ,” he answered, not altogether steady, and moistened his lips. More unintelligible Italian followed, but she didn’t miss the undercurrent of suggestion or the way he looked at her bare legs.

She turned, went to the front door of the small shop, locked the door, and drew the shade. When she turned back to him he was staring at her with an amusing combination of terror and anticipation, wringing his hands together.

She walked toward him slowly, still with the smile. “Yes, this is your lucky night.

Unfortunately for you, my unwashed friend,” she added, reaching out to touch his arm, “you’re not going to remember any of it.”

After the tattoo—which made her happy in the way small children are happy on Christmas morning—

she strolled up Il Corso, the main thoroughfare back to the hotel. She was tired and hungry and sore from her earlier jump and from where the needle had pierced her skin. Who knew a hip could be so sensitive? All she wanted now was something to eat, a bath, and bed.

The gelato shop was charming, small like all the other shops on the Corso and still filled with people though the hour was late. She selected pistachio—large—and ate it with a small wooden spoon while she wandered, thoughtful, up the boulevard.

What was Xander doing right now?

She had no doubt of his fury. In his place, she’d feel the same. But she didn’t feel sorry for him. She thought he very much needed a bucket of water to douse the fire that was his ego. So sure of himself, so confident. So domineering. So irritating .

Though a tiny part of her was glad for the distraction. It kept her from thinking too much about the ticking clock of her assignment.

Perhaps she’d gone too far, though. If he truly thought he’d lost her, he’d be on the phone with Sommerley in a heartbeat, calling in reinforcements. She had no doubt she could escape him again, but a city full of Ikati , all intent on finding her, was another situation entirely. The thought gave her the chills.

She pressed on to the hotel at a quicker pace, tossing her empty gelato container in a sidewalk trash can as she went.