Page 86 of Edge of Oblivion (Night Prowler 2)
When she’d awoken, the Fever had been gone. Just...poof!...disappeared. Three days of the worst kind of hell and the sweetest taste of heaven, then done as if it had never happened at all. Except for a dullness in her brain that somehow vivid memories of Xander’s beautiful, muscled body—beside hers, over hers, inside hers—managed easily to penetrate.
She was exhausted. Mentally, physically, emotionally depleted. Though they’d shared something she’d never thought possible, she and Xander had made a bargain, fair and square. Their—
tryst? Dalliance? Mutual insanity?—was over when the Fever was over, which now it was. He was a man of his word and so would honor their agreement, but would she?
Gripped by a sudden, horrible vision of herself wailing and weeping at his feet like some pathetic castoff, hoping for some crumb of his affections, she felt a chill run down her spine.
You’re in too deep. A thousand kisses deep.
She rubbed a clear circle in the middle of the steamy mirror and stared at her reflection.
Hope. Sweeter than honey and more heady than wine...her mother had been right. Hope was a drug that lured your soul right out of your body. How much of her soul had the goblins already eaten?
How much did she even have left?
She felt a sharp pain in her hand and looked down to find her fingers gripped so tight around the necklace her knuckles were white. She eased her shaking fist open and gazed at the necklace, at the little red dents in her palm. In a flash of something like defiance, she wrapped the chain around her neck and fastened the clasp.
The medallion slithered down between her breasts and settled there with an ominous, foreboding chink. Something in the sound snapped through her haze and brought her upright.
Creaking chains and ancient metals, echoing corridors and whispering voices, darkness and incense and moldering stone. What? What was it?
She stood fixed, on the verge of it, unable to breathe. Seconds went by, minutes, but...nothing.
Just that pale shadow of a memory, a skin-crawling brush of déjà vu. Suddenly she was cold, shivering. She rubbed her palms against her cheeks to get the blood back into them and reached for the towel to finish drying off from her shower.
As Morgan dried her body, as she dressed, as she moved around the darkened bedroom, tidying, stripping the bed, preparing to move all her things into one of the other unoccupied rooms, the medallion nestled heavy and cold between her breasts, and she was acutely aware of its alien weight, of how
it never warmed against her skin.
The first bullet whistled by Xander’s left ear, missing his face by inches. A second followed quickly after the first and embedded itself into the wall a few feet behind him with a thunk that dislodged a fine spray of dust from the drywall inside; a third found its target and hit him directly in the chest.
He’d been prepared, so it Passed harmlessly through his body, but it still knocked the breath out of him.
Things were not going as well as planned.
Everything had been fine at the start. He’d Passed through the back wall of the facility after finding a spot where his senses told him it was safe—meaning deserted—on the other side. He’d held steady in the dark supply room he’d found himself in for just long enough to confirm the wires he’d cut in the fuse box out back were, in fact, the ones for the burglar alarm and motion detectors. He’d isolated Bartleby’s voice from a babble of others somewhere near the front of the building, which meant the doctor had been successful in gaining access and now had the attention of what Xander hoped was the majority of the other humans in the building. He’d wound his way through the maze of dark hallways and rooms toward where his nose told him Tomás and Mateo were being held, sensing nothing out of the ordinary. He’d found the two of them, unattended, locked in large cages in a well-lit room and had quickly freed them and led them back the way he’d come, Mateo badly limping and silent, Tomás bristling and growling low in his throat, dripping blood from a wound on his face.
They’d slunk out of the facility and into the SUV without the slightest hitch.
Simple. Everything was so simple.
Until, on his way back inside to find Julian, Xander had gone past one locked steel door and stopped short, arrested by the scent of blood.
So much of it the air was stained by its thick, rust-and-salt pungency.
A muscle in his jaw twitched as he stared at the door. He knew that like many animal shelters in Europe, shelters in Italy had a no-kill policy. Unwanted animals weren’t euthanized; they were kept until adopted or sent to one of the many animal sanctuaries around the country. And in the case of animals that were mortally wounded or terminally ill, a cocktail of drugs was administered by injection for a quick, “humane” death.
So why all the blood?
He didn’t bother walking through the door. He just Passed his head and shoulders through and looked around. Though the lights were out and the room was plunged in darkness broken only by the eerie blue glow of computer screens and digital readouts, he saw and smelled everything with perfect clarity and was instantly overcome by a horror so overwhelming he could not move another inch to save his life.
It was a long white room crowded with thousands of cages of every size, stacked in orderly rows one atop another, to the ceiling. Some were empty, but the ones that were occupied contained misery the likes of which he had never seen.
Hundreds of snowy white rabbits were immobilized in a long row of black plastic shoebox-size cages along the north wall, their bodies pressed by the cage on every side, their heads stuck through holes in front, their pink eyes covered in weeping sores and bloody discharge. Beside them were the cats, cramped by the dozen in breadbox-size chicken-wire cages, electrodes implanted into their skulls and wired to overhead panels, pacing listlessly or lying dead-eyed and drooling in their own waste.
Along the opposite wall were the emaciated dogs huddled in the corners of their larger metal cages with every type of disfigurement: raw and bloody coats, missing limbs and eyes, open sores, no teeth, bleeding gums.
The monkeys were in the largest cages, reinforced with steel bars, like all the others barren of any food or water or even a soft place to rest their heads. With their old-man faces and keen, eloquent eyes, they were worst of all. As soon as he looked in their direction they all sent up a piercing, cage-
