J. Geissinger - Edge of Oblivion

Nausea rolled through Julian in wave after hot, sickening wave. Lights strobed red and orange beneath his closed lids; he felt movement and big, gentle hands beneath his body. Sounds, warped slow, penetrated the blackness he floated in as if from somewhere very far away or underwater. There was pain, but it mostly kept far away, too, only occasionally swooping in low to nudge him with sharp talons.

He was aware of being lifted, of being spoken to, of moving swiftly through space, though how that was possible he didn’t know since he was paralyzed. He didn’t much care, truth be told—despite the nausea, the blackness was warm and comforting and he wasn’t inclined to leave it anytime soon.

After a while cool, fresh air brushed his face and he sucked it deep into his lungs.

That helped the nausea. He sank a little deeper into the comforting blackness.

“Julian!” said a male voice he vaguely recognized. Whoever it was sounded really worried.

Panicked, really. The voice said, “If you die on me, I’ll fucking kill you!”

Ha. Ha ha. He liked the owner of that voice, whoever it was. He drew in another breath, feeling his heartbeat slow. Liking how peaceful he suddenly felt. His body began slowly to melt.

“Julian!”

Fainter sounds reached his ears, animal sounds, low grumbling, yowling, hissing sounds, and with the sound of an engine turning over the movement changed from jerky to smooth. Something wet and rough passed over the side of his face, something wet and cold nudged his nose. For a moment he wanted to try and open his eyes, but then the darkness called once again and he turned back to it, melting, sinking, falling, surrendering happily to the endless void.

That almost-familiar beseeching voice called out his name over and over again, until, finally, it fell silent as Julian dissolved into darkness.

With his dead father’s elaborate Victorian silver letter opener held carefully between two fingers, Dominus slit open the sealed manila envelope in his hands. The sheaf of papers from the lab in Milan that emerged from within was an inch thick, bound by a black jumbo clip at the top corner. He dismissed the bowing servant who’d brought it and without returning to his desk began quickly to skim the summary page on top.

...nucleotide represented as sample A in report successfully replaced by sample G...

As he read, the manila envelope dropped unnoticed from his fingers and silently floated in a sideways drift to the floor at his feet.

...mutation replicated in successive testing...

His heart began to pound. His gaze skipped down farther, to the bottom of the page.

...positive test results achieved.

His arms, strangely numb, lowered to his sides. He raised his head and stared at the stone statue of Horus against the wall, glowering blank-eyed into the gloom. Outside a new day was dawning, but here in the dank belly of the catacombs, darkness held fast. Twenty-five years it had taken him, but now he would rise from the darkness, take back everything that had been stolen from his kind, and rain death on that spreading stain that was humanity. All he needed now to complete his happiness was that unmated full-Blood beauty he’d seen at the Spanish Steps.

And by this time tomorrow he would have her. Demetrius’s dreams had attested to that.

“My lord?” murmured Silas, emerging from his ever-present silence in the shadows of the library. He approached in a rustle of robes and the smoky tang of incense they always burned to diffuse the scent of mold that saturated everything.

“It’s time, Silas,” Dominus whispered, gripped suddenly by the fear that to say it aloud would jinx it. But he was a man of science, a man of action—he didn’t believe in superstition. He straightened and spoke louder. His voice echoed through the room. “I’ve finally done it. It’s time.”

He turned to find Silas staring at him with a look of stunned disbelief. He sank to one knee on the stone floor, pulled the gold medallion he wore around his neck out from beneath the collar of his robe, and kissed it.

Seeing him on his knees got Dominus’s mind to working. “I feel like celebrating,” he announced, walking to his massive oak desk. He opened a locked drawer and carefully set the report inside. He laid his hand flat on it for a moment before locking the drawer again. “Go get that new blonde I had last night.”

Still on his knees, Silas shakily replied, “She was not able to withstand your...attentions, sire.

She died in the infirmary just an hour ago.”

Dominus’s brows rose. He gazed at his servant, silent.

“I shall find you a replacement,” said Silas, rising. He bowed. “Immediately.”

Dominus smiled into the gloom, victory singing through his blood.

“Make it two.” He thought of the full-Blood female again—her lush body, her exotic scent, her mind a surprising, sweet tangle of brilliance and loneliness and guilt—and a surge of heat washed through the room. “And make them brunettes,” he said, smiling.

Xander crouched on the balls of his feet with his back against the rough bark of a twisted umbrella pine at the top of the grassy, ruin-dotted Palatine Hill, looking out over the breathtaking view of the morning sun climbing over the Forum and Circus Maximus below. From this elevation all of Rome was laid out before him like a banquet: the six other famous hills, Vatican City, the Colosseum, the endless miles of twisting streets and red-tiled roofs, the ancient Aurelian Walls that enclosed the city, the snaking green Tiber, the surrounding countryside and far-flung, smoke-purple mountains.

It was a view fit for a king. Which was exactly why he’d chosen it.

A cool morning breeze ruffled his hair, and he closed his eyes a moment, savoring the relief it brought his overheated skin. He was drenched in sweat; the skin on the palms of his hands had blistered and rubbed raw; all his muscles ached.

Grave digging was hard work. Harder than he remembered.

From beside him Bartleby quietly said, “Are you all right?”

A quick glance left revealed the equally sweaty and disheveled doctor leaning on his shovel, gazing down at Xander with real concern in his eyes. Xander swallowed and looked away. “No,” he murmured honestly. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be all right again.

The doctor’s slow exhalation was almost drowned out by the harsh squawking of two ravens chasing a peregrine falcon away from their nest in one of the trees nearby. The old man slowly sank to a crouch, using the handle of his shovel for support, then sat back abruptly on the grass with a great sigh as if relieved to no longer be standing. They sat in silence for a few minutes, looking at the view, the brilliance of the rising sun, the flattened, choppy patch of disturbed grass and dirt directly in front of them that housed the shrouded remains of Julian, six feet under.

“He’d approve, I think,” said Bartleby, gazing slowly around. He set the shovel down next to Xander’s on the grass between them and brushed a few clinging clumps of dirt from his hands.

Xander’s heart clenched in his chest as a memory seared an agonizing path through every nerve in his body. The doctor had said those exact words—with the exception of changing the he to she —the last time they’d done something like this together, nearly twenty years ago. He’d never forgotten a single detail of the day Esperanza died nor, he suspected, would he ever forget a single detail of today.

So much death. So much loss. Idly he wondered if he’d be alive in another twenty years to look back on this. He decided he hoped not.

“This is my fault,” he said morosely, drowning in self-loathing.