J. Geissinger - Edge of Oblivion

“And thank Horus for it, because I’m going to have to go somewhere far away to get away from your constant complaining. You’re like an old woman.”

“Watch yourself, beauty queen,” shot back Lix, taking the bait. “Or I’ll torch that shoe collection you’ve got. What are you up to now, about ten thousand pair? And are all those hair products really necessary? You could start your own salon.”

Constantine snorted and tossed his head, sending glossy jet hair spilling over his shoulder. He was, by all accounts, the most beautiful male of the kingdom. Some said he was even more beautiful than the principessa Eliana herself. Females swooned over him, and he took great advantage of it, but he had unswerving loyalty to his brothers and was always the first to put himself in harm’s way for one of them. Which was lucky for him, or else jealousy would have most likely made everyone hate his guts.

“At least I bathe,” said Constantine, taking a loud and pointed sniff in Lix’s direction.

“And you smell like a damn rose garden! Is that perfume ?”

“Put a sock in it, ladies,” growled Celian over his shoulder. “Unless one of you wants to be the one to explain our situation to the King.”

That silenced them. No one ever wanted to be the bearer of bad news to Dominus. There was only a fifty-fifty chance your tongue would stay attached.

A few more minutes of walking through the silent underground labyrinth, and finally they arrived.

The corridor opened abruptly into a vast, soaring space decorated like the keep of a Gothic castle. There were no windows in this place, but there were Egyptian statues and ancestral portraits and beeswax candles in iron braziers dripping wax to the stone floor. There was chunky wood furniture and Persian rugs and a long table with carved high-back chairs that seated thirty. Red velvet sofas lined one wall; shining suits of armor flanked a massive glass case of antique weaponry.

In the center of the room sat an elaborate throne of dark wood with clawed feet and crimson cushions. Its back curved up to a high, sharp point, atop which perched a grinning human skull, cocked askew on a spike.

Upon the throne sat a man. He was large yet lithe and dressed in snowy white, as always, which contrasted with the burnished honey-bronze shade of his skin. From his neck hung a golden talisman on a chain: the Eye of Horus, symbol of the ancient Egyptian god of war and vengeance. Dominus believed himself the reincarnation of Horus, and all the warriors had the symbol branded on their left shoulders when they were indoctrinated into the Bellatorum .

“Gentlemen,” said the King. His deep voice carried easily over the distance between them.

“How fare you?”

“Well, sire.” Celian bowed his head. The others, lining up beside him, followed suit and remained silent.

“Well?” Dominus repeated in a questioning tone. In turn, the warriors each felt the sharp, fleeting sting of the King’s gaze upon them. “Indeed?”

Celian lifted his head and met his master’s gaze. “We four are well, sire,” he equivocated, “but as for Aurelio and Lucien, I cannot say. They did not return to the rendezvous point as agreed.”

All the candles in the chamber sputtered in a sudden cold breeze. Celian felt his brothers beside him tense and concentrated on keeping his own body relaxed, his breathing regular. The King thrived on fear and sensed it like a snake senses a mouse. If he hadn’t seen otherwise for himself, he’d have thought the King’s tongue was forked.

“The rendezvous point,” the King drawled, sardonic, lounging against the back of his throne with one leg crossed casually over the other. “Which means you split up.”

“The male escaped through the wall of the Vatican, sire—”

“Through the wall?” Dominus said, sharp. He sat forward, eyes glassy and hard like obsidian.

“You mean he evanesced, as we do?”

Celian took a measured breath, calculating. How to describe it? “I mean he moved through it.

He...melted. Into it. He’s impervious to bullets, too.”

The King’s black eyes did not blink. But they burned. By God, did they burn.

“Yes. I found that out myself. Very interesting. And inconvenient.” He paused for a moment, contemplative, then very softly said, “And the female?”

Celian was dreading that. The King had made no bones about his desire for that female.

“He took her with him through the wall.”

The King’s nostrils flared, but that was all. He still hadn’t blinked.

“We reengaged the male outside, but the female was gone. Aurelio and Lucien went after her, and we tried to lead the male in the opposite direction, but he didn’t follow. We circled back but lost his scent. And Aurelio and Lucien didn’t return at the agreed time.”

Celian knew it wasn’t his imagination that had the temperature in the room dropping by several degrees. Next to him, Lix shifted his weight from one foot to another.

“Unfortunate,” the King said, with an edge like a blade. “So very unfortunate. Especially since I made my instructions perfectly clear.”

A chilled breeze stirred around their shoulders as the first spike of pain throbbed through their skulls. Only Celian remained still against it, having been subjected to the King’s excruciating Gifts many times before. Their lord and master didn’t actually read other people’s minds so much as inhabit them, and when he wished, his anger inhabited them as well.

In this case, the King’s anger felt like a fanged viper slithering around inside his head, spitting poison into his brain.

The others began, subtly, to fidget. D rolled his shoulders; one of them cracked. Lix shifted his weight again, and Constantine flexed his hands open and closed.

“ Facilis ,” Celian murmured. Easy, boys. Take it easy.

A cat, one of hundreds that ran wild throughout the catacombs, appeared from behind the throne, where it had been sleeping on the stone floor. Pure black and sleek, it was a perfect miniature for their kind in their true animal form. Except for its eyes, which glowed vivid yellow in the candlelit room. The Bellatorum —born in darkness, raised in darkness, trained to fight and kill in darkness—had black eyes, to a one. The cat rubbed its face against a leg of the throne, then jumped in one graceful leap onto the King’s crossed legs.

He began to stroke it behind the ears. It purred and settled into his lap.

“We will wait until midnight to see if Aurelio and Lucien return with what is mine,” said the King softly. “And if they do not”—he turned his burning black eyes to Celian and his lips curved to a smile—“I shall require compensation.”

Celian’s skin crawled. He knew what compensation the King required. One thing and one thing only bought atonement from the King’s displeasure: pain.

Pain would be his tithe for failure.

“Yes, sire,” he said, his voice very low.

A growl rumbled through Constantine’s chest, and the King smiled even wider. “Ever the protector, Constantine. And yet how you displease me with this show of concern for your brother.

Your fealty lies with me first, does it not?”

Constantine raised his head and met the King’s cold, cold eyes. “Yes, my lord.”

“Good. Because it will be you who will dispense Celian’s punishment if your other brothers do not return with the female.”

Celian felt Constantine stiffen and wanted to reach out and cuff him upside the head. Defiance could get him killed. He wasn’t worth it.

“As you desire, my lord,” said Constantine, slowly, anger darkening his face.

The King settled back into his throne, thoughtful, stroking the cat. He looked them over, one by one, calculating. “Consider yourselves fortunate, gentlemen. I am in good humor, as three males of age survived the Transition this week alone. We have several more Liberi who will soon be tested, and we have the promise of a new full-Blood female at our fingertips. Things are looking up, would you not agree?”