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J. Geissinger: Edge of Oblivion

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J. Geissinger Edge of Oblivion

Edge of Oblivion: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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There exists a world beyond our own. It is a world of ancient magic and well-guarded secrets, a world of strict laws and harsh punishments for those who betray them, a world inhabited by the Ikati, a race of gifted people who are so much more than they first appear. Brought together by fate in this world of danger and beauty, two people with dark pasts will meet. Morgan is beautiful, smart, sexy…and about to die. Convicted of treason against her shape-shifting kin, she is given one last chance at redemption; discover the hidden lair of the enemy intent on destroying every one of her kind, or forfeit her life. Xander is ruthless, heartless, cold-blooded…and assigned to kill her if she fails in her task. Expecting to feel nothing but contempt for the traitor under his watch, the assassin accompanies Morgan on her search, but as the two race through the heart of Italy while the clock winds down to zero hour, he finds himself drawn into a dangerous web of desire as powerful as it is forbidden. Their passion will test everything they believe in, and endanger the future of the tribe itself. Sensual, edgy, and action-packed, Edge of Oblivion is a must-read for lovers of dark paranormal romance.

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The storm had broken just as he’d disembarked from the Earl of Sommerley’s private plane at Heathrow this morning and showed no signs of letting up. It reminded him of the monsoons that drenched his own colony in Brazil every summer. But this squall, vigorous and lusty as it was, seemed somehow less primal. More predictable. More...restrained.

Everything in this sophisticated, sprawling English colony was so restrained. The architecture, the people, the land—even the weather. Only their Law was the same, he mused. He’d seen the evidence of that in the medieval-looking device still standing in the great hall. It exuded an animal hunger all its own, just as the machines kept by his tribe did.

“I don’t follow,” he said to the windows. “If you know where they are, why not send a garrison? Why not send a full force to wipe them out?”

“We don’t know exactly where they are. And until we do, we can’t mount a direct assault. We can’t risk the exposure or the manpower. Most of our forces are readying the tribe for the move to Manaus. And since they know about all the colonies except yours, moving the tribe to safety is our first priority. Once everyone is settled we can focus on strategy, but in the meantime we can’t just strike out blindly. We need more information.”

Leander’s tone was just tight enough to reveal his irritation. Xander had known the earl for decades and knew how he hated questions, hated explanations. Which meant that in addition to needing information, Leander needed him.

“More information.” Xander turned from the window and looked at Leander with one eyebrow cocked.

Kill first, ask questions later—that was his own motto, and it had served him well. But this man who reclined so casually against the back of his elaborate chair in his elaborate drawing room within his even more elaborate manor house couldn’t live by the simple creed of an assassin. He was Alpha, which meant careful decisions, careful questions, careful plans.

Politics. He loathed it. Thank God the role of Alpha of Manaus had gone to his half brother.

“Yes,” said Leander, gazing at him now with unveiled irritation in his sharp green eyes. He shifted in the chair, restless, and something in his expression suggested he had his own, unspoken problems with this plan. “Exact location, exact numbers. How they live. What, exactly, they know about us.”

Xander studied him, wondering what he was missing. “If you’re looking for that kind of information, you don’t need an assassin. You need an infiltrator. A mole.”

“As it happens, we need both.”

Apparently no longer content to sit, Leander rose from his chair and moved to an elegant sideboard of polished cherry that displayed a variety of cut crystal bottles filled with amber and gold and clear liquids, set out on a silver tray. Xander watched in mild surprise as his host poured a generous measure of scotch into a glass, threw back his head, and quaffed it in one swallow.

According to the long case clock in the corner, it was barely past noon. The vague feeling of something being off solidified into surety.

“Both?” he prompted when Leander didn’t continue.

There was silence in the room for several moments, unbroken except for the thrum of rainfall against the windows and the ticking of the clock. Then Leander spoke, low, to the empty glass in his hand.

“Have you ever been in love, Alexander?”

The assassin, trained from childhood to act and not to feel, was caught completely off guard.

Against his will the fleeting image of a pair of chocolate-brown eyes, liquid dark and smiling, flared in his memory. He blinked and the image vanished, leaving behind a ghost of dull pain that throbbed and mewled in his chest before he ruthlessly smothered it.

“No,” he answered flatly.

“Neither had I, until recently,” he went on, still low, still to his empty glass. Xander knew he spoke of his new wife. The Diamond Queen, they called her; just as beautiful, just as rare. She was famous in all four Ikati colonies, as famous for her Gifts and charm as she was for her past and her parentage.

The only freeborn Ikati, daughter of an outlaw Alpha and his fated, forbidden love.

A human, of all things. The enemy.

“It’s more powerful than I ever would have guessed,” Leander mused, almost to himself.

“Elemental. Transformative. And painful.” He gave a soft, humorless laugh. “Like fire.”

“Like death,” Xander rejoined, still in that flat, emotionless tone.

This conversation was headed down a very dark path, a dangerous path, one he didn’t care to follow. Love was an element, he knew too well, as cruel and violent as hurricanes or tornadoes or floods. Even speaking about it invited disaster.

Another rumble of thunder rattled the windows, and Leander seemed to snap out of his reverie.

He set the empty glass down on a beaded coaster and turned abruptly, his face wiped clean of emotion.

“We want you to accompany a member of our colony to Rome to hunt the Expurgari.”

Xander’s eyebrows shot up. “They’re in Rome?”

“I know,” Leander said. “I always imagined the Expurgari lived in the worst places in the world, the desolate or diseased places. Somewhere like Calcutta or Death Valley.”

“Or Chernobyl,” Xander added, very dry.

“But perhaps they never left Rome. It all started with a Roman emperor, after all. One of his descendants might be their leader now.”

“But why me?” Xander persisted. “I’m not a bodyguard, as you well know. In fact, I’m quite the opposite. If your tribesman needs muscle, there are far better choices than I—”

“No,” Leander interrupted, gazing askance at Xander. He inhaled a slow breath that lifted his shoulders, then walked across the room and sank back into the plush comfort of his ornate, high-

backed chair. He trained his gaze on the storm outside the windows. “It’s not a bodyguard we’re after.

Your particular skill set is exactly what’s required. For our tribesman.”

There was something ironic in the way he pronounced the last word, something mocking.

Xander waited, knowing he’d get the answers he was looking for if he waited long enough. His patience was legendary, almost as much as his precision and efficiency, his total lack of emotion.

“Once in Rome,” Leander said quietly, still gazing out the window, “you will stay two weeks, not one day more. And if in that time period the exact location of the Expurgari headquarters is not determined by the person you will accompany, if the detailed information we seek is not gathered, you will do what you do best.” He turned his head and his gaze flicked over Xander once in keen, cold assessment. “You will kill her.”

Her? ” Xander echoed, shocked, though his expression remained stoic as ever.

But before he could say more, there was a sharp knock on the library door. When it opened to Leander’s curt “Come,” Xander was shocked once again, this time into silence.

4

“That’s the best I can do,” Jenna said, her voice strained, and released Morgan’s fingers. She fell back into the riot of scarlet and pink peonies that decorated her overstuffed silk chair and rested a pale, shaking hand over her eyes.

Morgan sank back into the spine-numbing chill of her own metal chair set across from Jenna’s and tried very hard not to vomit. She still fought against that sideways, lurching pull, that disorienting loss of gravity, those vivid images that had popped and flared and drunkenly reeled from the first moments Jenna had grasped her hand.

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