Page 101 of Edge of Oblivion (Night Prowler 2)
He spread his hands over his flexed thighs, closed his eyes, and breathed.
“Morgan,” he murmured. “Love. Where are you?”
Distant traffic murmured. Leaves rustled in the trees. Cool, soft air brushed his skin.
Nothing else happened.
He shifted his weight and tried again, focusing on her name, repeating it silently like a mantra, clearing his mind of all else. After several minutes of this his left foot began to tingle; it was falling asleep.
He ground his teeth in frustration. How the hell was this supposed to work? He had a random thought to go back inside and ask Tomás, but instantly thought better of it. He had to be the one to do this, and he had to do it alone.
A wet snuffling at the back fence caught his attention. There lurked the beagle, staring at him wide-eyed through the knot in the painted white wood. It froze when he let a low, rumbling growl build in his chest, then took off yelping when he sat forward on his haunches and snarled like an animal, like the animal he was.
Stupid dog. He remembered the first time he’d seen it, when he and Bartleby had sat here together and the doctor had so pointedly asked Xander if he was in love with Morgan. He chuckled, remembering it, how in denial he’d been just moments before he’d gone downstairs and surrendered himself to the first emotion he’d felt in two decades.
And God, what emotion it was. Sweet and fierce and beautiful, just like her. Passionate.
Consuming. Demonic.
Memories rose to assault his senses: her eyes, skin, hair, lips, scent. Words spoken, hushed and reverent, hoarse and pleading. Pleasures shared. Skin on heated skin. Love. He swallowed to try and ease the ache in his chest, breathed deep to counteract a sudden light-headedness. “Morgan,” he softly groaned.
And then a rushing cold wind engulfed him, roaring in his ears.
Underground—clammy air—dusty stone—bones and shadows and—
Danger. She was in danger, and terrified.
Xander leapt to his feet. He gazed out over the rooftops of Rome, feeling a pull like gravity, his blood scorching fire through his veins. Her name like a drumbeat inside his head, loudest when he looked west, deafening when he spied the golden, rounded rooftop of St. Peter’s Basilica.
All the breath left his body as if he’d been punched.
“I’m coming, baby,” he snarled, and took off in a flat-out run.
33
Morgan awoke to a jackhammer pounding pure agony through her skull.
With a moan, she lifted her head, wincing in pain. A quick glance around revealed a vast, shadowed stone chamber decorated by an eccentric hoarder with a fondness for Edwardian Gothic decor and the color red. Every inch of floor space was crammed with antiques that looked valuable and very old, and everything was saturated in shades of fresh-spilled blood, from the patterned rugs to the elaborate velvet-upholstered furniture to the woven tapestries on the walls. Even the heavy iron braziers that lined the walls had candles of red that cast a demonic, dancing glow over everything.
The chamber was retrofitted with an enormous, intricate limestone skeleton that hugged the soaring walls and created the illusion of the interior of a medieval cathedral with clustered columns, pointed ribbed vaults, and flamboyant tracery in stained-glass windows that looked out onto nothing.
Ther
e were statues and oils and carved figures of saints, gargoyles leering down from peaked columns, suits of armor and displays of antique weaponry, rows of crested flags hanging far above.
It was astonishing, morbidly beautiful, and very cold. No fireplace or other visible source of heat warmed the chamber, and the damp, clinging air sank down to chill her bones.
And there was the matter of her head.
She gingerly explored the back of her skull with her fingers and found an enormous, tender knot lurking just behind her left ear. When she pulled her hand away it was slick with blood.
“Damn,” she muttered. What had happened? The last thing she remembered was the tomb of the Egyptians, the sarcophagus, the steps—
“My apologies,” said a low, silky voice to her right, “but my guards tend to be a bit overzealous in their treatment of intruders. How are you feeling?”
She snapped her head around—the room went spinning—and there he was, the feral Alpha in white. He was as slickly handsome as she remembered, reclining on an elaborately carved velvet divan a few feet away. He watched her with hooded black eyes and a lazy, sinister smile.
Her body went cold, colder even than the room. “You,” she whispered.
