J. Geissinger: Edge of Oblivion

“I do,” she answered, her voice soft but clear. “And I accept the will of the Assembly.”

The viscount sniffed, displeased. She did not seem appropriately afraid. Well, no matter. She’d be afraid very soon, he assured himself. Very soon. He’d have her stripped and shorn and trussed like a turkey; he’d give her to the crowd to soften her up before fixing her to the Furiant, his personal favorite of the tribe’s torture devices, so named in honor of the bohemian dance of spinning and flailing bodies and limbs.

Soon , he promised himself again, nearly salivating with anticipation. I’ll see you naked and begging soon, my duplicitous dove. He snapped the thick sheaf of papers in his hands and moistened his lips, lowering his gaze once more.

“Then by unanimous resolution of this Body,” he read, his sonorous voice carrying to the far reaches of the silent room, “we do hereby sentence you to—”

“Wait.”

The voice came from behind him, clear and commanding, the American accent evident even with that single word. He turned, startled, and the room turned with him, all gazes now focused on the woman who’d appeared so suddenly beside the empty throne. She was lovely and pale, the palest creature in the room, golden-haired and delicate in a gown of ivory satin that nearly matched her skin.

She stood there like a shimmering opal among a sea of black pearls.

He glimpsed her solemn face, registered the stubborn lift of her chin, and his heart sank.

“Majesty,” he murmured, executing a low, practiced bow. The men on either side of him rose and bowed in turn, and so did everyone in the crowd, in utter silence. Like static electricity sparking in invisible bursts over all their heads, the sense of anticipation in the air ratcheted higher.

Her husband rose and took her hand, and with a quizzical arch of one dark brow he bent and pressed his lips to her fingers. When he straightened, she sent him a penetrating, sidelong look and let her hand rest in his as she turned to face the room.

“I have an idea,” the Queen declared.

Beneath the starched white collar of his shirt, Viscount Weymouth began to sweat.

Morgan was having trouble remembering how to breathe.

“And that way,” the Queen continued, calmly addressing the stupefied Assembly, “we can kill two birds with one stone. So to speak.”

In the wake of this statement—utter silence.

They’d reconvened in the East Library, a smaller yet no less grand room than the formal hall they’d just left. It was peppered with priceless antiques and ticking clocks and plush Turkish rugs and a huge crystal chandelier that threw fractured prisms of light over the polished mahogany table and the silent, stiff group of nineteen seated around it.

Sixteen Assembly members, one Alpha, one Queen, and her.

The traitor.

To whom the Queen had just offered a lifeline, slim though it was.

Morgan kept herself calm as best she could by focusing on the view of the hills through the windows, rolling drifts of loamy earth carpeted in emerald fields and nodding wild-flowers and miles of forest so dense only a faint memory of sun reached the silent forest floor from the canopy far above. Pale green rays filtered through but never fully penetrated the cool gloom.

The river Avon cut through the dark center of it, miles of snaking turns and crystal clear water that was bejeweled above by darting turquoise dragonflies and perfumed pine needles and gossamer tufts of drifting goldenrod, below by the mirror flash of rainbow trout. On a clear day like this she knew she’d be able to see straight down to the sandy bottom, to the waving tendrils of moss anchored to beds of smooth, dark stones, to the tiny, darting hatchlings and froglets. She’d spent hours exploring the New Forest as a child, many hours and days and months of her life. The memory dissolved like a bitter pill on her tongue; in all likelihood, she would never explore it again.

“With all due respect, my lady,” said the viscount to the Queen past stiff lips, “I fail to see how your plan can be realistically executed.”

From the corner of her eye, Morgan saw Leander’s head turn in the viscount’s direction. She didn’t have to see his face to feel the particular heat of his answering stare: warning and blatantly hostile. Envying the lone hawk that circled far above in the stark cerulean sky beyond the windows, she fisted her trembling hands in her lap and practiced breathing.

In. Out. In...out.

The viscount began again in a more conciliatory tone.

“There’s absolutely nothing to guarantee this female,” he gestured toward Morgan with a curl of his lip, “who’s proven herself a danger to the tribe by the worst possible act of treason, will do as you say. She’ll simply vanish, never to be seen again. Or worse, she will find them. And reveal everything .”

Morgan chanced a glance at him from beneath her lashes.

From his position seated straight-backed and dour near the head of the table, he shook his head.

Two bright blotches of red stained his cheeks, a fine sheen of perspiration covered his brow, his hands curled around the arms of his chair so hard his fingers had turned white. She almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

“No, she won’t.” Jenna turned her head and gazed across the room at her with luminous eyes of yellow-green, cool and assessing. “Will you, Morgan?”

Wordless, trying not to shake or blink or otherwise reveal the snarling terror monster in her gut, Morgan shook her head no.

Jenna turned back to the viscount and granted him a satisfied smile.

No one said anything for one long, frozen moment. Then a voice chimed up from the middle of the table, stronger than she would have given him credit for.

“I think it’s a good plan.”

Nathaniel, newly christened member of the Assembly, looked nervously around with a flop of dark hair falling over one eye. Morgan leaned against the overstuffed back of her rose chintz chair and exhaled a long, silent breath through her nose. Quiet , she willed, staring hard at him. Please be quiet, or it’s off with your head, you fool!

He was sweet and young, and she didn’t want to see him do anything stupid and get hurt, especially on her account. For not the first time, she wished her Gift of Suggestion could be used across empty space and was not limited to touch.

“Agreed,” said Leander, to the obvious shock of everyone at the table except the Queen, who sat beside him, relaxed and elegant with one finely arched brow slightly raised, as if to say to the rest of them, Go ahead, I dare you .

“But, but—” the viscount sputtered, livid. He jerked out of his chair. “It’s impossible! There is no guarantee—” Another man stood, Grayson Sutherland, stocky and well-regarded. “The risk is too great, lord.

Even you must see—”

“Yes, yes,” someone else was saying loudly, “the risks far outweigh any advantage we could hope to obtain—”

“—she wouldn’t just return—”

“—it’s outrageous to think—”

“—she cannot be trusted!—”

“—the danger to us—”

“—think of the consequences —” They were all on their feet now, arguing and shouting over one another, all except the Queen and her Alpha, who remained apart and silent, and Morgan, alone at the end of the table, shivering in her chair. Though it was warm enough in the room, she was cold, ice-cold, a freeze that went bone-

deep. Grave -deep. She wondered if she’d ever feel warm again.

Leander stood abruptly from his chair, a lithe unfolding of limbs that was at once elegant and unquestionably menacing. “Silence,” he commanded through clenched teeth, and, just as abruptly, there was.