Edge of Oblivion (42 page)

“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.

Very realistic.”

She laughed and sobbed at the same time, then pressed the back of a shaking hand against her mouth. She hitched up her dress and sat beside him, and for the first time he realized he was on a bed.

In a room. No—a cabin? The sky shone deepest azure through a round porthole edged in brass set high in the wood-paneled wall; the ceiling was painted aqua and populated with dolphins and seaweed and eels slinking through coral. The spoked ship’s wheel clock on the dresser beside the bed read 4:17 p.m.

“It’s not a dream,” she said, “and here, I’ll prove it to you.”

Then his beautiful ghost leaned over and pressed her lips against his. When she drew back, they were both out of breath.

“Well,” said Xander. “I did say it was realistic. Perhaps a little more proof is in order.” He pulled her down to him, ignoring the sudden pain between his shoulder blades, and kissed her hard and deep with his hands pressed against her face, his fingers threading through her hair.

She broke away first—again—and quietly laughed. “You’re feeling better.”

“I thought you were a fiend.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Did you now?”

“And this was hell. I thought I was dead. How am I not dead?”

Her eyes grew soft. She brushed back his hair from his forehead and smiled. “Well...I sort of saved your life. Again.”

Xander took a breath. “Oh. Not very manly of me, needing to be rescued so much, is it?”

“It is an awful lot of work,” she agreed, somberly nodding. Then she lifted a shoulder and dropped her gaze to the knitted azure blanket across his chest. She picked at the material, chewed on her lower lip. Her voice lowered. “Someone has to look after you, though. And since I’m so...fond of you, well, I suppose it might as well be me.”

As his heart swelled inside his chest, Xander had to work very hard not to smile. He reached for her hand. “We can save each other,” he whispered, and pressed his lips to her knuckles.

She bit her lip, and that moisture welling in her eyes finally overflowed. Tears tracked down her cheeks. She buried her face in his chest.

“You found me,” she said, muffled, into the blanket. “You came for me, Xander, you
found
me

—”

“I’ll always come for you,
amada
,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “Don’t you know that?

You’re my heart. You’re my soul. I’m not going to let a little thing like you being kidnapped by a madman and held in his secret underground dungeon keep me from my heart and soul. You’re not getting away from me that easily.”

She sobbed into the blanket.

“Hush now, sweet girl.” He gathered her into his arms and held her against him until she quieted and all her tears were spent. “Tell me what happened.”

She sighed, snuggled closer to him, and began to talk. She told him how the males of the catacombs had helped her, how they’d cared for him in their infirmary, how close he’d come to death.

She told him how they’d quashed the rebellion that had stirred when the other members of the colony learned of the King’s death, how they’d installed the one named Celian as the new leader, how the King’s daughter had fled the colony with her brother and a handful of others and had not yet been found.

“But the best part is,” she said quietly in conclusion, “now that I did what I was sent to Rome to do, I’ve been given a full pardon. And the Queen has honored her promise to me.” She lifted her eyes and gazed at him. Light from the window caught in her hair, warmed the tips of her lashes. “I can go wherever I want.
Live
wherever I want. I’m free.”

He stared at her blankly. “I don’t understand.”

“Dominus. He was the head of the Expurgari. We found him, so...”

“The head of the Expurgari,” Xander repeated slowly.

She shook her head. “I’ll explain it all later. Right now you should rest. You look a little pale.”

He caught her wrist and held it, pulling her closer to him. He sat up in bed and ignored the searing pain along his spine. “You mean—we’re
not
fugitives? This trip—this boat—”

“Oh!” she said, startled. “No! God, no, we’re not fugitives. All five of us have been completely cleared.”

He stared at her. “All
five
of us.”

At that exact moment, heavy footsteps pounded over the roof above his head. A smile flitted over Morgan’s lips as she watched him follow the sound with his eyes as it moved overhead, growing softer then louder, thumping down what sounded like a flight of stairs. A dark head popped in the high, round window, then disappeared; someone had jumped up to look in.

A heavy hand knocked on the door.

Then to Morgan’s amused “Come in,” Tomás and Mateo burst through the door.

“Hey, asshole,” Mateo said, smiling. “You look like death warmed over.”

Tomás nodded a greeting and leaned his huge frame against the wall. “Fuckface.”

“Bartleby is on deck, making dinner,” Morgan said gently, seeing Xander’s open-mouthed astonishment. “Your friends here are quite the fishermen.”

“So far I’ve caught blue marlin, yellowfin tuna, wahoo, even
sailfish
,” Tomás bragged.

“Kadavu is amazing!”

“Kadavu,” Xander repeated, finding it hard to know where to look. His brain wasn’t translating information properly. He had to be hearing this wrong.

“Fiji,” said Mateo with an eye roll, as if it should have been obvious. “Seventy-five miles of pristine barrier reef with water so clear you can see the bottom of the ocean from the boat. Jungle-

covered volcanic hills, mangrove bays, snow-white beaches...what?”

He trailed off because Xander had closed his eyes. He was sure he was deathly pale.

Morgan leaned close to his ear. “I told you I always wanted to see a sunrise in Fiji,” she murmured, her hand on his arm. “So now I’ll get to see one. Or...” she giggled, and it made his blood sing, “...maybe two or three.”

He opened his eyes and saw her devilish grin and began to laugh, a hoarse, shaky sound that hitched in his chest and caught in his throat and made Morgan’s grin falter. His laughter died, and he roughly pulled her against him and buried his face in her hair.

“Jesus, woman,” he said, ragged, all restraint gone, “do you have any idea how much I love you?”

She pulled back and gazed down at him, eyes alight. “Probably not as much as I love you,” she whispered, then bent to kiss his lips.

“Jeez, get a room,” grumbled Tomás, but Xander hardly heard it. Against her protests, he hauled Morgan on top of him and wrapped his arms around her, ignoring the ache between his shoulder blades and in his chest, caution at last thrown to the wind. He heard the cabin door close softly and the sound of footsteps receding.

“Marry me,” he said between breathless kisses, struggling to rid her of her dress.

“I doubt there’s a priest on this island,” she replied with a low laugh, then sat up and pulled the dress over her head. It was discarded to the floor, and she lay back against him, her skin warm against his. “There are just beaches and coves and coconut trees. And anyway, you’re in no shape to stand at an altar, my love.”