J. Geissinger: Edge of Oblivion

“I’m so sorry,” Morgan whispered. Her face grew hot; tears threatened behind her closed eyes.

“I’m so sorry for what they did to you—that I’m responsible—for that .”

With a rustle of fabric, Jenna leaned forward in her chair. A gentle hand touched Morgan’s knee. “I know you are. I know you didn’t mean...I know that wasn’t what you wanted.” Almost as an afterthought she added, “I can See it, you know.”

Morgan opened her eyes, looked into the pale, somber oval of Jenna’s face, and endured a moment of self-loathing so gut-ripping it felt like she’d swallowed a grenade. “Why are you doing this for me? Why not just let them kill me?”

She didn’t think it possible, but Jenna’s face went a shade paler. She removed her hand from Morgan’s knee and leaned slowly back, settling into her chair with the barest of melancholy sighs. It was a sound with a lifetime of pathos behind it. Her gaze drifted over Morgan for a silent moment before she began, low and halting, to speak.

“I made a promise to you once. Not that long ago. Do you remember?”

Yes , she wanted to say. I remember. Of course I remember. My freedom for my silence. But she didn’t say that. There were others here—men, guards, unquestioning loyalists—who would never understand how the seed of friendship can take root and flourish in the dark soil of a shared secret.

“But that was before...” she began in protest, then trailed off, unwilling to even speak it aloud.

Jenna’s lips quirked, and for some bizarre reason, Morgan thought she might be hiding a smile.

“My father used to tell me, ‘A promise made is a promise kept.’ He never went back on his word and neither will I. All I’m offering is a chance, Morgan. A chance for us to gain the upper hand and for you to make things right. If it pans out, you’ll be pardoned. You can come back to Sommerley or move to one of the other colonies and start a new life for yourself. Realistically, it’s not much of a chance—Rome is a very large city. I didn’t see anything specific from the Expurgari who tortured me”—she said it, tortured , unflinchingly, and Morgan’s face again—“that would lead us to their headquarters there. No address, no outstanding landmarks, not even a general idea of neighborhood.

Only that hideous room full of...”

Heads , the Queen didn’t say. Heads preserved in formaldehyde, row after row of them in glass jars lining an entire wall in a large, windowless room of dark stone and antique furnishings and colorful, crested flags hung near the ceiling. Heads of their kin, murdered Ikati , a few from only months back and desiccated, shrunken others from God only knows how many long centuries ago.

It was the enemies’ trophy room. And Morgan’s targeted, nearly impossible-to-find destination.

Jenna cleared her throat and lowered her gaze to her hands resting on her lap. “You only have two weeks. Half a month to find a needle in a haystack isn’t really that much of a chance, but it’s all I can do. It’s a...compromise. Find them and all’s well that ends well. If, however, you don’t find them in time...” She trailed off just as Morgan had done moments before, not needing to articulate the obvious.

If she didn’t find them in time, she would die.

Jenna must have seen how she blanched, because she leaned forward suddenly, grasped both of Morgan’s hands between her own, and spoke in a low, urgent voice. “Fate will have its way with all of us, Morgan. I can’t predict how this will end because that is out of my hands, but I can give you a chance for redemption. Everyone deserves at least that. The rest is up to you. Find the Expurgari and let the tribe get their vengeance somewhere else.”

Mute, Morgan gazed at her while the hovering guards began to mutter and rustle and move forward, alarmed at this new contact. Two of them swooped in and pulled Morgan roughly back by the shoulders, dragging her chair back several feet.

Jenna shot to her feet. “That’s not necessary,” she hissed as one of the guards wrenched Morgan’s hands behind her back and twisted a pair of biting cold handcuffs around her wrists. She clenched her teeth against the sudden pain and—worse—humiliation of being bound. The guards hauled her to her feet, shoving aside the chair with a kick.

“Lord McLaughlin’s orders, Your Highness,” the larger one answered, surly, breathing his malty breath down Morgan’s neck. “No contact except for the transfer—”

“Release her this instant or I’ll have your head ,” Jenna shot back, bristling, and the guard stiffened in what should have been terror but was more probably outrage. She could quite literally have his head, quite easily, but no one in this patriarchal society as yet was used to a woman wielding that much power. Especially since Jenna hadn’t flexed those particular muscles since becoming Queen. Morgan knew it would only take one bloody instance to have them all cowed and toeing the line, but she didn’t want to be the cause of any more bloodshed.

“It’s all right,” she said to Jenna between her clenched teeth. “You’ve done enough. Please, you’ve done enough.” She flicked her gaze to the smaller guard, the worried-looking one with soft eyes and a turned-down mouth. “We’re done. I’m ready.”

He nodded and curled a gloved hand around her upper arm, careful to lean as far away as possible while still holding on to her.

“Morgan.” Jenna stepped forward with an outstretched hand, but the two guards had already begun to lead her away, tripping backward in the same heels and gossamer gown from the day before, rumpled now because she’d slept in it. The other guards came up to surround her in a booted knot as they made their way toward the door with their prisoner.

“I’ll be back,” Morgan said over their shoulders, her voice not quite even, not quite strong. She watched the lone figure of Jenna recede among the clustered palms and rioting birdcages, pale hair and skin stark as snow against the gray, rainy day. “I’ll make it right. I promise ,” she added, just as they reached the door.

“Good luck,” Jenna called. But in the heavy, doleful undertone of her soft voice, Morgan heard the farewell and knew what good luck really meant.

It meant good-bye .

The guard with the malty breath—Matthew was his name—was the one who knocked on the carved oak door of the East Library. Somehow he fancied himself in charge, though Morgan and all the other guards knew full well he was unranked and the least Gifted of the group. His only advantage was a clumsy kind of strength, which he used judiciously to drag her through the crypt-quiet shadowed halls of the manor, yanking her along by her elbow when she slowed or stumbled on a bump in a thick-pile rug.

She’d known Matthew all her life, of course, just as she’d known everyone in the tribe since the day she was born. She’d been there the long-ago day his mother had dropped his newborn sister—tiny, puling, and deformed—into the yawning black mouth of the Drowning Well, then turned and walked away without even shedding a tear. Waist high and frightened among the somber, gathered adults, Morgan had clutched her father’s hand and felt terrified and proud there was nothing wrong with her, no deformity or weakness that would compel the tribe to shun her, compel her own mother to make a trip to this unholy place or risk death for all her other children and herself.

But her mother was dead by then. And Morgan had no weakness.

Well, no weakness they could see.

She recalled another memory of Matthew, leering at her with two sloe-eyed friends from the leafy shadows of a twelve-hundred-year-old yew on the eve of the Equinox Festival one winter when the snow was ankle high. She’d been fifteen then, at the brink of her first Shift, only just beginning to notice she was different from the other girls of the tribe, uninterested in boys and marriage and whispered, giggling talk of what happened after the Matchmaker and the Keeper paired you off in a proper Blood match and you were allowed to be alone together.