J. Geissinger - Edge of Oblivion

The warriors answered as one, their voices echoing in the stone chamber. “Yes, sire!”

Dominus chuckled. “And I am closer than ever to perfecting the antiserum. Yes, things are most definitely looking up.”

None of them knew exactly what he was talking about, but no one commented or questioned.

Questions were never allowed.

Dominus sighed and waved them away with a flick of his wrist. “Prepare yourselves, then. I will join you in the fovea at midnight.”

The brothers bowed and backed away toward the exit but stopped when they heard the King’s voice.

“And Constantine?”

He turned. “Yes, sire?”

“Make it the barbed cat-o’-nine-tails.” His lips curved into a smile, cold and red. He glanced at Celian. “I want to see blood.”

Three hours after Morgan made the call on Xander’s phone, she heard a sharp knock on the door of the hotel suite.

By then she had little hope the assassin would survive. His pulse fluttered fast as a hummingbird’s, then stalled out for seconds at a time, his skin was gray, and his breathing was weak.

And the blood. So much of his blood had leaked from his wound she thought there couldn’t be anything left for his heart to pump through his veins.

She’d crouched on the floor in front of him for as long as she could, with his blood-soaked shirt pressed to the wound, until her legs had cramped and she’d repositioned herself on the sofa beside him, ignoring the blood that seeped through her skirt and blouse from the sofa cushions, between her fingers from the gash on his stomach. She hadn’t moved since. Her mind refused to consider the implications of his death and instead kept up an endless loop of images of Xander since they’d met.

His burning tiger’s eyes rimmed in a thicket of black lashes, his wicked smile, the way he moved like a silent, deadly hunter, those scars all over his back. His tender, blood-lost expression when he’d said he didn’t blame her for letting him die.

That kiss.

That was the one that refused to fade, no matter how much she tried to push it aside.

So when the knock finally came, she was relieved. For about five seconds, until she opened the door.

There in the hallway stood three males. Two were obviously Ikati , big and glowering and exuding the kind of menace and power only a male of her kind did. One had dark hair to his shoulders and stormy, oddly colorless eyes; the other had hair trimmed short like Xander’s and eyes the exact shade of new grass. Both had guns drawn, pointed right at her face.

They flanked a third male, smaller, older, bespectacled—

—And human.

She didn’t have time to wonder about that because she was summarily shoved aside as they pushed past her into the room.

The human fell to his knees in front of the couch, dug a stethoscope from the black leather bag he’d carried in, and listened to Xander’s heart. He did a cursory physical exam with nimble fingers that were both gentle and sure: pulse rate, wound inspection, pupil dilation, lifting first one lid then the other to shine a pen-size flashlight into his eyes. The two Ikati performed a swift, silent sweep of the rooms and the terrace, looking behind doors, checking locks and exits. When satisfied no threats lurked inside, the green-eyed Ikati holstered the gun in the front of his waistband and went to stand over the doctor while he worked. He watched silently while the other male did a quick check of the two bodies that had lain on the floor for the past few hours. Gray and stiff, they were beginning to emit the faint, distinct odor of decay.

“And?” said the green-eyed Ikati . His voice was deep and gravelly.

The human adjusted his glasses and made a small, dissatisfied noise. Cottony tufts of white hair wreathed his head like a crown of miniature clouds. “He’s lost too much blood, Mateo. I’ve got to do surgery to get this piece of glass out and stop the bleeding, but we can’t move him to the safe house like this. He’ll die before we get him there.”

Mateo ran a hand over his head and cursed. The other Ikati male finished his inspection of the bodies and stood, surveying the room with those smoky mirror eyes. “I told you we should have brought a donor.”

“We didn’t have time , Tomás,” Mateo responded, sharp. “And where the hell would we have found one, anyway?”

“Excuse me,” Morgan said. Everyone ignored her.

“Let’s get him up on the table,” the human said, gesturing to the glossy mahogany dining table.

“I can work better up there. And I’ll need towels and blankets, and something for him to bite down on if we’re going to do the surgery here. A wooden spoon is good.”

“Um, gentlemen?” Morgan tried again. And failed again. The two Ikati took hold of Xander’s shoulders and legs while the human rushed over with his medical bag and began clearing the silk flower arrangements from the center of the table.

“Easy, watch his head!” the human man chastised as Mateo and Tomás laid him out on the table. Xander jerked and groaned when he was set down, but his lids remained closed. “Roll him on his side, like this,” the man said, working over him. “Gently, please. Gently.”

“Guys—”

“ Meu deus , he’s lost a lot of blood,” Tomás muttered. He stood at the head of the table, looking down at Xander’s pale face, his blue lips.

“He’s strong,” Mateo said, by Xander’s feet. His face was as almost as pale as Xander’s, his jaw clenched tight. “He’s made it through much worse.”

Morgan cleared her throat. “May I just have a word—”

“He won’t last long without a transfusion,” murmured the doctor, peering at Xander’s bare lower back. “You’ll have to find someone local, and quick because he’s fading—”

“You let him die, and we’ll have your head, Bartleby,” snapped Tomás, bristling.

“Not helpful,” said Mateo, noting how the man blanched under the assault of Tomás’s anger.

He addressed the doctor directly. “There is no one local. There’s no colony in Italy, and obviously it can’t be either of us since his body will reject blood from another male. You’ll just have to find a way to make it work without—”

“Hello!” shouted Morgan.

Three heads swiveled in her direction.

“I can give him blood,” she said, calmer now that she had their attention. “I can be the donor.”

Frozen, Bartleby glanced first at Mateo, then Tomás, both of whom had turned to stare at her with the flat, killer gaze of jihadists. No one moved.

“You are the mark,” said Mateo. Dispassionate, his gaze traveled over her body.

“I am the Morgan, actually,” she answered tartly.

“ Mark means target ,” Tomás cut in with a curl of his full upper lip. “Hit. Job. Pigeon. Victim

—”

“How enlightening,” Morgan interrupted, folding her arms over her chest. She glared at him so hard she thought her eyes might cross from the effort. “Thank you for the vocabulary lesson. Now are you going to let me be the donor or let your boy bleed to death on that lovely Cassina table?”

There followed a long, crackling silence.

Morgan was at the very end of her reserves of patience, a well that was shallow under the best of circumstances. She was exhausted. Her body ached, her bones ached, even her teeth ached, and her blood was boiling like someone had lit a fire beneath her feet. If she had anything to compare it to, she’d have thought she was coming down with the flu. So the fact that there were two more strange, hostile males staring at her as if she were lunch didn’t freak her out as much as it should have.