J. Geissinger - Edge of Oblivion

“He was a big boy, Alexander,” Bartleby answered sternly. “He made his own decisions. There was absolutely nothing you could have done to prevent him from fighting—”

“He should never have been at that bar in the first place,” Xander interrupted, running a hand through the sweaty mess of his hair. “I’d never have allowed it.”

“Now you’re his mother?” The doctor’s voice was gently chiding.

“They left the safe house because of me!” Xander exploded. He leapt to his feet in a fluid motion, adrenaline singing through his veins, his anger finally breaking free after being held in check all night. He stared down at Bartleby with flexed fists and the overwhelming need to punch something bloody. “We fought! I drove them out! Me and my stupid, asinine—”

“Stop it!” Bartleby snapped, rising to his feet with surprising agility. He stood in front of Xander, staring up at him with livid, blazing blue eyes. “Stop blaming yourself for everything bad that happens and twisting it around to make it your own fault! You can’t control everything, Alexander, and Julian was no exception! And may I remind you because you seem to have forgotten—they had to leave. And not because of any fight with you.”

At that, Xander shuddered. Yes, he was right. Julian, Mateo, and Tomás had to leave because there was a female in heat in the house...and he should have gone with them. He’d refused to leave Morgan alone because of what he wanted from her, because of how she made him feel and the man he thought he almost could be, a happier man, a better one, just by being near her, awash in her smile and her scent and the dark, tantalizing depths of her eyes.

He’d chosen Morgan, and now Julian was dead.

Bartleby narrowed his eyes at him, scrutinizing. “Whatever you’re thinking, I guarantee you it’s wrong.”

“I’m thinking what a wonderful guy you are,” Xander said between clenched teeth.

Impossibly, it brought a smile to Bartleby’s face. “At least you haven’t lost that charming sense of humor.”

Xander growled and looked away. The morning sun was bright in his eyes—too bright—and for a moment he closed his eyes against it. Immediately, too many images flared beneath his closed lids, ghosts rising to taunt him in his misery.

Finding Julian near dead in the surgery suite at the testing facility, the chemical stink of drugs all over him, speeding away in the stolen SUV to the safe house, frantically trying to revive him even after all signs of life had disappeared. Bartleby pulling a sheet over his big friend’s body, going to care for Mateo and Tomás in the impromptu infirmary he’d set up for them in the gym. Stumbling in shock out of the room in search of Morgan, only to find her gone from the room they’d shared, all her things moved out, the room sterile and clean as if she’d never been there at all. Standing outside the room she’d moved into, smelling her scent beyond the locked door.

Locked. She’d locked the door against him.

He could have easily broken it down, but he knew what she meant by it. The Fever was over.

They were over. And in his state of anguish and utter self-loathing, it had torn a hole in him wide enough to drive a truck through. Everything good in his life inevitably ended. And the better the good thing, the more catastrophic the ending.

For every gift, an equally terrible price.

He’d decided while he and Bartleby had driven to this place in the predawn dark with Julian’s shrouded body in the back of the car that he was cursed. Because of who and what he was, because of the life he’d lived, because from the very beginning he’d been unwanted, an outsider in a world he could see but never touch, his very being was tainted. Like the gentle rain that turns to ruinous floods or the morning sun that rises to scorch all the earth dry at noon or the soft breeze that becomes a hurricane, anything he touched started out fine but always turned to shit later.

Cursed.

So it was better Morgan stayed away from him. Better she wanted to stick to their agreement, better she thought he did, too, though it would kill him to even think of not being near her again, not touching her again.

Because he knew without doubt he was in love with her. He was totally gone. She infuriated him, she drove him to distraction, she baited him and challenged him and defied him, but for all that, she calmed him in a way no one ever had. And after years of his being dead, she made him feel alive.

With her, he felt...whole.

“We should get back. I need to check on Mateo and Tomás,” Bartleby said, rousing Xander from his thoughts. He opened his eyes to find the doctor gazing solemnly at him, a furrow between his brows.

Xander nodded, a chill like ice spreading through his gut. He leaned down to retrieve the two shovels and handed them to Bartleby. “Give me a moment,” he said.

Bartleby laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Take your time,” he murmured with understanding, then turned and slowly walked down the sloping hill toward the car, a grave-digging shovel clasped in each hand like a pair of morbid walking sticks.

Xander stared down at the freshly disturbed patch of grass at his feet. He felt, for the first time in his adult life, fear. Mingled with regret and the kind of acid, devouring sorrow that doesn’t have a name, it was almost completely debilitating. For a moment he didn’t know if his lungs would remember how to expand and contract. He almost hoped they wouldn’t.

How much pain can a heart take before it just stops beating? he wondered, swallowing around the flame of agony in his throat. Surely it couldn’t endure much more?

“Good-bye, old friend,” he said, head bowed. “I’m sorry. Wherever you are, I hope you can forgive me for all the ways I’ve failed you.” He took a long, slow breath, then lifted his head and stared out over the sun-kissed rooftops of Rome, red and gold and glimmering in the morning light.

“Maybe I’ll see you soon,” he whispered.

When he and Bartleby arrived back at the safe house, he found Morgan curled up on the black leather sofa in the media room with her feet tucked beneath her body, chewing on a thumbnail as she watched television. She was so absorbed in the program, she didn’t hear when he came in and stood staring silently at her from the doorway. She was dressed entirely in black, leggings and a long black cowl-

neck sweater belted at the waist to make a knee-skimming dress. Her feet were bare, her hair was pulled back in a loose bun, her face was devoid of makeup.

She was, as always, breathtaking. His heart broke all over again.

“We’re back,” he said tonelessly, and she jumped.

“Oh!” She leapt from the couch and faced him, pale as snow, the hand at her throat shaking, pulse pounding furiously in the hollow of her neck. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—” she stammered, blinking, and adjusted the neckline of her sweater, closing it tightly around her throat. “I was watching TV.

They said—the news said someone gave an undercover video to the press showing animal abuse at that facility...and the authorities have gone in to shut it down...” She trailed off, waiting for him to reply.

He said nothing. He’d already forgotten about the phone with the photos and video he’d dropped off early this morning at the local news offices. At this moment he could hardly remember anything at all; it took every ounce of his concentration not to cross the room and yank her into his arms. He wanted to bury his nose in her hair, bury himself in her warmth and scent and softness, cry like a baby while she held him and wiped his tears away.

“I was so worried,” she murmured, staring at him, her eyes soft.