Edge of Darkness (17 page)

Caesar was thoroughly unimpressed with the drawing Marcell presented him with.

It wasn’t the quality of the work he found lacking, it was the subject itself. Shoulder-length brown hair, brown eyes, heart-shaped face, symmetrical but average features, the woman staring back at him from the drawing could have been one of a billion different women, all of them boring. A crust of white bread had more interesting things to offer.

“That’s her?” he asked, sorely disappointed. “She looks so ordinary.” He’d have thought a male of his kind would have better taste in human women, especially considering they were off-limits, on pain of death. Why risk his hide for
that
?

He shifted his gaze to Nico, who stood humbly beside Marcell with his eyes lowered, his hands clasped behind his back. “Does she have big breasts, at least?”

“No, sire,” replied Nico regretfully.

Caesar gave an exasperated sigh. “Great ass, great legs, statuesque as a runway model—anything?”

“She was just…normal, sire. About five foot four, average weight, average everything.”

Average. How depressing. Who was this rogue who’d killed two of his best men and had average taste in women?

He handed the drawing back to Marcell. “Well. Just one more reason to kill the son of a bitch.” He dusted off his hands as if the paper had soiled them and instructed, “Get copies of that to everyone. I want to know who this girl is. If we can find her, we can find him. And she’ll undoubtedly be much easier to find than our rogue friend.” He smiled. “And might make him a little more inclined to comply with our demands.”

He sat back in his chair—really, it was more of a throne, high-backed and elaborately carved, cushioned in red velvet—and looked around the room in satisfaction. In spite of the problem with the rogue male, everything was going so well.

The place he’d settled after leaving Rome was a stroke of pure genius, if he did say so himself. With unobstructed views of the sprawling city below and the forested mountain range behind, the abandoned bunkers, remnants of the Spanish Civil War, were situated at the crest of a jutting outcropping of rock. The steel-reinforced concrete structures were crumbling in many places, graffitied by long-ago vandals as well, but afforded an excellent point of ingress and egress, easily defended.

But the above-ground portions of the bunkers were not the most valuable aspects of his new colony. The most valuable aspects were
below
.

A labyrinth of hand-dug tunnels connected larger, open spaces that served as barracks, training facilities, and storage for food, weapons, water, and other supplies. And, of course, his playroom. Also, at a constant chilly 55 degrees, the caves provided the perfect temperature to store their most precious commodity: the serum.

The single thing Caesar admired about his dead father Dominus was the thing that would ultimately allow him to rule the world. A brilliant scientist and evolutionary biologist, his father had invented a serum that would allow human and
Ikati
blood to be compatible. Half-Bloods could live for a while, but eventually were faced with the Transition, a do-or-die event that occurred at twenty-five years of age, exactly at the minute of birth.

Fewer than one percent of half-Bloods survived the Transition, a problem that had defied solution for all of their recorded history. No one knew why, but, just like a clock ticking down to zero hour, there was a definitive expiration date for those of mixed Blood.

Only now, due to the invention of the serum, there wasn’t. The serum allowed the delayed first Shift to occur, and a half-Blood survived it without problem. Even better, he was going to use mankind’s prolific fertility against them. If all went according to plan, humans had only a few generations left on the planet.

After that—bye, bye, birdie!

In the meantime, terror and anarchy—two of his favorite things—would reign supreme.

He needed to find a trustworthy lab to produce the quantities he needed because he had neither the medical facilities or the mind for science his father had, but the supplies they’d stockpiled would suffice very well to set the plan in motion. As a matter of fact, the first part of the plan was already well underway; they’d already impregnated dozens of women, willing and otherwise. Hundreds more would be similarly situated soon.

The harem and nursery were another wonderful addition to the barren underground caves.

But they needed more offspring, enough to build an army, and it would take time. Considering he was immortal, time was really of no consequence at all. He’d be able to see this plan to its ultimate fruition.

He turned to his second-in-command, a hulking male with a cool, soulless beauty, and those obsidian eyes they all shared. “What’s the current count, Marcell?”

Marcell inclined his head respectfully as he always did when speaking to Caesar—a habit Caesar absolutely delighted in—and said, “Two hundred six, sire.”

Caesar was pleased. He’d arrived in Spain with only a handful, but now the disgruntled members of the other colonies, ruled as they were by their Draconian Law, were flocking to him in droves. It seemed there were many who believed, as he did, that the
Ikati
should no longer hide in the shadows.

They’d had thousands of years of that. Time to flourish in the light.

Also, time to dig more tunnels.

Caesar sat back in his throne and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. With calm deliberation, he instructed Marcell, “Go and find me this Plain Jane Nico saw the male with. And then we’re going to finalize the plans for The Hammer. I want everything in place and ready by the middle of March; this year Easter is on the thirty-first.”

Marcell bowed, he and Nico backed quickly from the room, and Caesar was left alone with his thoughts, all of which brought a deeply satisfied smile to his face.

Just like last Christmas, this Easter would be one humans would never forget.

The telephone ringing shrilly next to her ear awoke Ember with a jolt the following morning.

She looked in confusion around her bedroom, wondering why she wasn’t in the bed, when she remembered she’d been doing research far into the early hours of the morning, and must have fallen asleep at the desk.

She stretched her neck, which responded with an ominous series of cracks, reached over, and picked up the phone. Into it she mumbled something resembling a greeting.

“September!” her stepmother brayed into the earpiece. With a wince of pain, Ember jerked it away from her ear. She glanced at the clock; just before eight. What on earth could she be calling about at this hour? The woman never rose before ten.

Then panic hit her, cold as a pail of water splashed in her face. Picturing the bookstore burned to the ground, she bolted upright in the chair. “What’s wrong, Marguerite? What’s happened?”

“I’ve had the most wonderful news!” she crowed in response. Ember frowned, confused, because her stepmother was never happy, and she was definitely never happy when she called
her
.

“I don’t understand—is everything all right?”

“Breakfast, my dear, breakfast. We’ll
meet you at Ovando at ten!”

Ovando was Marguerite’s favorite restaurant, a swanky affair full of celebrities, posh socialites and prominent businessmen, perfect trolling grounds for finding her next ex-husband. Though Ember knew her well enough to find her repulsive, she couldn’t deny the woman had a certain way with men. She had long ago perfected the art of discerning men’s deepest, darkest desires with a few well-timed questions and a shark-like ability to scent weakness. She found out what they needed and gave it to them. Then when they were emotionally dependent on her, she took it all back and left them clamoring for more.

Genius in her own way, she was also perverted in the truest sense of the word; she was so distorted, her heart so corrupted by the desire for money and power, she could never truly love.

It would have been funny if it wasn’t so sad.

Judging by the way Marguerite had said “we,” Ember knew her stepsisters would be tagging along. The Tweedies never missed an opportunity to eat.

“Marguerite, it’s Monday. I have to work—”

A truly frightening cackle came over the line. “Work! Oh, dear, that’s rich! That’s too, too rich!”

Ember removed the phone from her ear and stared at it as if it had sprouted horns. Too rich? Who talked like that? And what had this woman on the other end of the line done with her evil stepmother?

“Ten o’clock, September, don’t be late. And try to look presentable, will you, dear?”

Marguerite disconnected, the dial tone sounded, and Ember’s mind went over every possible explanation for what had just happened. Since when was she “dear?”

In the end she decided there was really only one way to find out.

By the time she reached the restaurant exactly two hours later, Marguerite and the Tweedies had already begun to eat.

“I thought you said ten,” Ember muttered, disgruntled as she always was by the sight of her stepsisters. Sitting side by side in the plush leather booth, wearing matching lavender dresses despite being about twenty years past the point when it was either cute or acceptable, Analia and Allegra ignored her appearance and continued eating their breakfasts. Even the food was identical; poached eggs with shaved black truffles, crepes Suzette, Belgian waffles with fresh cream, double sides of sausage, and coffee, black.

Because one just had to spare the calories somewhere.

“Anyone with an ounce of good sense knows you have to arrive early to get the best seating at Ovando,” sniffed Analia to her eggs. Allegra agreed with an imperious toss of her head, saying, “And anyone with an ounce of good breeding knows you should always arrive ten minutes before
that
.”

Ember felt a violent urge to stuff one of their sausages into each of their mouths.

“Sit down, September,” directed Marguerite with a wave of her hand without looking up. She had some paperwork spread out on the table beside her plate and was fingering it with what appeared to be almost religious reverence. Ember’s brows drew together; whatever this was, it wasn’t good.

She took a seat opposite the Tweedies, and ordered coffee from the waiter who appeared then disappeared, silent as smoke.

“You really should eat more,” observed Marguerite, looking down her nose at Ember. She shot a proud glance at Analia and Allegra, plump as fatted calves. “That heroin chic look went out in the Eighties, my dear.”

There is was again—“dear.” The word crawled over her like a cluster of tarantulas.

“What’s going on, Marguerite? What’s with the paperwork?”

The Tweedies rolled their eyes at one another. “Surly,” said Analia.

“American,” said Allegra, and both of them burst into a fit of snorting giggles.

The twins had disliked her on sight when they’d first been introduced. Dislike had taken a turn toward hate when it was discovered Ember’s father—a relatively famous artist who Marguerite had mistaken for a
rich
artist and married within months of meeting him—would not be able to cure the debts or the bad name their own father had left with the family when he disappeared. General consensus was that the Tweedies’ natural father done some bad business with the mob and had most likely been disposed of, leaving his wife—his third wife—and twin daughters in the lurch.

But that wasn’t Ember’s fault. As far as she was concerned, they were just spoiled jerks.

She looked at them now and said, “Laugh it up, asshats. Once mommy dearest dies, you two vultures will be alone with each other forever. Who do you think will eat the other one first?”

Allegra spit out a half-chewed chunk of Belgian waffle, Analia gagged over her eggs, and Ember enjoyed a profound moment of satisfaction, until Marguerite ruined the entire thing when she spoke.

“Antiquarian Books has been bought.”

Ember’s head snapped around. She stared at a coldly smiling Marguerite, her brain unable to process what had just been said. “Bought? When? By who?”

“Last week. I didn’t want to say anything because the paperwork wasn’t completed, but it’s done now, everything is in order, all I need you to do is sign over your shares to the new buyer, and it’s finished.”

Marguerite slid the papers over the pristine white tablecloth to Ember, who stared at them as if they might suddenly burst into flame. “But…who…why would anyone
want
it? You said it yourself, it’s upside down, the creditors alone—”

“It was all arranged through Señor Alvarez,” Marguerite responded dismissively, leaning back against the leather. She smoothed a hand over her hair—scraped back off her face as always and pinned to a severe chignon—and took a sip of her coffee. “There was an anonymous buyer, some rich book collector who’d apparently been interested in the store for quite some time. The deal was all cash, if you can believe it! He’s paid for the entire catalogue, including all those mid-century cookbooks your father insisted on and I
knew
would never sell. At any rate, it’s an incredible stroke of luck. And the offer was ludicrous!” She actually laughed, which made Ember cringe in horror, it was so grotesque. “We’ll both be
set
, my dear!
Set!
”