Page 6 of Edge of Oblivion (Night Prowler 2)
He held up one finger as if it were a loaded gun.
Nathaniel took another quick step back. Morgan knew it was useless to argue, to tell him that of course she wasn’t going to do any such thing, so she kept her mouth shut and rose from the chair unsteadily, still not understanding what had brought this all on.
Her confusion was overwhelming and well-founded. Jenna had almost died because of her.
Why would she try and save Morgan’s life?
But she wouldn’t soon find out, because the snarling viscount had gone back to the table and snatched up the cattle prod Nathaniel had left behind. He stalked back across the room toward her, holding it straight out and threatening the way a lion tamer wields a whip.
She knew he’d turned it on even before he jammed it against her shoulder, but the jolt of electricity that stabbed through her like a molt
en spear and sent the room exploding into pops of red and white and then sliding, slipping black was more than confirmation.
At least she had time to grab his wrist before she blacked out.
It was going to rain.
Jenna felt it in her bones, though the sky through the tall windows of the East Library was still that perfect, unclouded blue. There was a dull ache in her chest that foretold the coming storm, just as in the past a fluttering ping in her stomach had indicated an imminent earthquake, a bitter taste on the back of her tongue had predicted snow, and that rare pain behind her right eye—experienced only once, when as a child she’d lived on one of the smaller Hawaiian islands—foreshadowed a volcanic eruption. Hurricanes brought on migraines, pounding and howling like the storm itself.
You will feel the very heartbeat of the earth , someone wise had once told her not so long ago, and he was right. Being Ikati meant being alive and attuned to the symphony of nature as no other creature on Earth was.
Behind her, back and forth across the marble floor and hand-woven Turkish rugs, that wise someone paced, silent as only a nocturnal predator can be.
“You didn’t tell me,” came his gentle accusation, low and faintly amused.
She didn’t turn from the window. “I didn’t know until this morning,” she replied truthfully.
She’d been dreading this day for weeks. Over and over, she had turned it in her mind, working on it in the same stubborn, steadfast way a termite chews through wood. What was she going to do?
Because she had to do something, obviously. She wasn’t going to just sit by and let Morgan die. But what?
What?
It was a problem that defied solution. Pardon was out of the question. Execution was out of the question. Indefinite imprisonment was out of the question, because she knew that would be worse than death for someone like Morgan, so fierce and proud.
But her betrayal had cut Jenna to the bone, both literally and figuratively. And Leander’s sister, Daria, was still in grave condition, most likely to be maimed for life.
There was the undeniable fact, however, that Jenna, though angry and betrayed and quite wounded herself, understood exactly why she’d done it. Which left her right back where she had started, pondering what was to be Morgan’s punishment.
It hadn’t come upon her until she’d caught herself staring blankly at one of the gilt-framed oils in the Gallery of Alphas. She’d gone nearly every day to stare at it, drawn by a combination of curiosity, nostalgia, and the faint, nagging feeling of something obvious that was being missed. It was a portrait done with care and precision, the image of a handsome, unsmiling man with a sharp jaw and a wide forehead, done in severe umbers and charcoal, lit from above. His blistering green eyes stared down from the canvas, just as feral and canny as her own.
Because they were. The portrait was of her father.
He’d been an outlaw to the tribe, too, and paid the ultimate price.
“She reminds me of my father, in a way,” Jenna mused aloud, watching a skein of swallows rise from the tree line beyond the windows. They scattered in quicksilver flashes of gray and black, melting into the sky.
“Really?” Leander’s murmured response was wry, not a question at all. The pacing stopped for a moment, then started up anew.
She turned to face him in a rustle of taffeta and satin, reminding herself to change out of this ridiculous dress as soon as possible. The Assembly inevitably required formal dress for these occasions, though she hated it. Even her wild Leander was dressed formally in a beautifully cut suit of navy so deep it was almost black, gleaming Italian loafers, cuff links, and a starched shirt and silk tie.
Only his hair remained untamed, a glossy jet tangle that brushed his shoulders, always appearing windblown even just after it had been combed.
Naked. He looked far better naked. Though she supposed he needed to wear something, clothes only served to mask his true glory.
The formal-dress problem would soon be remedied, she told herself firmly. She was fully healed now from all her wounds, and it was time to step up to the plate and begin revising the old rules.
The first item of business was Morgan.
