J. Geissinger: Edge of Oblivion

“Xander!” Morgan screamed, straining against the wrist restraints. “ Xander, no! ”

The male in the doorway beside her tucked the gun into his waistband and came to stand in front of her. “ Paenitet ,” he said, gazing at her with those black, black eyes. “I’m sorry. We are not all like him.”

He unchained her, snapping the restraints circling her wrists and ankles as if they were twigs instead of iron. As soon as she was free she ran, sobbing and nearly blinded by tears, to Xander and flung her arms around his neck. She heard his sharp inhalation, heard the faint, faint sound inside his chest.

“You were right, I’m afraid,” he murmured, pressing his face to her hair. He slumped sideways and she caught him, eased him down to the cold stone. He gazed up at her, pale and solemn, as she cradled his head. “About happy endings. I should have known it would end like this.” His lips, so full and soft, lips she’d kissed with dark, dark greed, curved to a wry smile. “I’m not the hero. I don’t save the day.” His eyelids fluttered, his voice grew faint. “I don’t get the girl.”

“No, no, no, no, no.” She kept repeating it, sobbing hysterically as blood bright red and warm began to pool beneath her. “Xander, please, stay with me, stay with me!”

“I wasn’t going to do it,” he murmured, gazing up into her eyes. “You know that, don’t you? I wasn’t ever going to...hurt you.” He drew a long, shuddering breath, and his voice dropped to the barest of whispers.

“I could never hurt you. I love you too damn much.”

Then his eyes closed and his head dropped to the floor. With three pairs of hands on his arms, back, and shoulders, D was lifted to his feet.

“Fuck, you’re heavy,” muttered Lix from behind him. “What’ve you got in your pockets, rocks?”

He didn’t recognize the wheeze that came out of his throat as his own. It sounded like the death rattle of a very old, very sick man. The knife embedded in his chest sent out wave upon wave of excruciating pain, blood flowed hot and fast down his chest, the room had lost its shape. He was helpless to stand without support, as all the strength had left his legs.

“Some of us have actual muscle, Lix,” he croaked, sliding very close to the wall of wavering gray fog that lurked in the corners of his vision. Breathing too deeply made the fog roll closer; that knife had punctured a lung. As evidenced by that sickening rattle in his chest.

At least it had missed his heart. That male on the floor didn’t look so lucky.

“Shut up, both of you,” Celian snapped. “If we don’t get you to the infirmary fast, you’re going to bleed out before we can sew you up, D.”

D remembered the last time he’d been sewn up. A faint smile crossed his face.

“We’ve got to contain the situation,” said Constantine. He eased his shoulder beneath D’s raised arm, took hold of his hand, and hoisted it around his neck, wrapping his other arm around D’s back. On his other side, Celian did the same. “We could have a mutiny on our hands if we don’t handle this right.”

“Trust me, no one’s going to miss him,” Celian muttered, glancing at Dominus’s body. A pool of blood had seeped from the bullet wound and formed a perfect circle around his head like the gory halo of some biblical devil.

His daughter might , D thought, then sucked in a breath as pain shot down his spine. Celian and Constantine had taken several steps forward, managing his weight between them. They made their way slowly across the room.

“Even so, the Legiones might make a move on us,” Constantine said. “We’re going to have to present a united front, be in control, manage what happens next. In other words, take decisive action.

Nature hates a vacuum, boys, so let’s not give ’em one.”

His voice very low, Lix said, “And her?”

No one had to look to see who he meant. On her knees beside the pale, still male they’d chased at the Vatican, the female rocked back and forth silently, shaking, both hands over her face. Her unbound hair shrouded her naked shoulders and back in gleaming mahogany.

Celian spoke. “As far as I’m concerned, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. And I think we’ve all seen enough bloodshed. Let them go.”

D didn’t think that male was going anywhere, but he was unable to speak. Pain had his tongue.

“Here.” Constantine pulled his gun from his waistband and nudged it into the hand D had wrapped around his shoulder. “Just in case things get ugly on the way to the infirmary.”

And as soon as he had his fingers curled around the metal grip of the Glock, D heard the advancing echo of boots from far down the corridor. Someone was running to the fovea .

Of course. The Legiones . They’d been drawn by the sound of gunfire.

He closed his eyes, trying to conserve strength. And when he opened them again, Eliana was standing in the doorway they were headed to, staring at them in white-faced, open-mouthed shock. Her gaze darted around the room. The chaos. The blood. Her father’s body.

The gunshot wound in his forehead.

She glanced back at Dominus, and all the color drained from her face.

“You,” she breathed, staring at the gun gripped in his right hand. Her gaze, horrified, uncomprehending, skipped back to his. “ You! ”

Constantine and Celian froze, and his own heartbeat ground to a standstill.

“No. No,” he whispered vehemently, chilled as if ice had been injected into his veins. A storm erupted in his body, a howling white squall of dread and panic. She had it all wrong; she thought it was him —

“No. Eliana! It’s not what you think!”

But she had backed from the doorway into the deeper shadows of the corridor and, before he could say another word, turned and disappeared.

Gentle rocking, warmth and softness, the cries of seagulls, and the tang of salt water ripening the air.

The sound of water lapping lightly against wood. The scent of tropical rain, sweet and warm.

Hell, Xander mused, wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d expected.

Pondering that, he allowed himself to drift on an aimless current of dreamy carelessness, rising and falling with that lovely rocking motion that lulled him so completely. He thought any minute the pitchforks and sulfurous rain would appear, so he didn’t bother to open his eyes. And anyway, the light that glowed red behind his closed lids was a little alarming. Better to put it off for a minute and enjoy the calm before the storm. Or whatever this was.

A little sound caught his attention. It was nearby, very soft and dark and troubling.

A sigh.

An exhalation from some pitchfork-wielding fiend, no doubt, anxious to cart him off to the next circle of hell as soon as he opened his eyes. Well, screw that. He was staying right here. He hadn’t felt this relaxed in years. He clamped his eyes shut so tightly his face crumpled into a scowl.

And then that little sigh turned into a gasp, fraught with concern.

The rustle of fabric, the sound of something creeping nearer, a cool touch upon his forehead.

He flinched, swearing, and the fiend cried out his name.

“Xander!”

Even in hell he recognized that voice. It cut through his dreamy laxity like a knife through butter, and his eyes flew open. And his heart—oh, his heart—

“You’re awake,” breathed Morgan, leaning close over him with her hair draped all around her face like a veil of burnished, silken bronze.

If he wasn’t already dead, he was pretty sure he would die of a heart attack.

“I...don’t...think so,” he murmured, staring up at this beautiful apparition. He reached out and touched a finger to her satin cheek. Her irises burned vivid emerald, that circle of yellow around the pupil blurred just slightly by the moisture welling in her eyes. “This is a wonderful dream, though.