Page 37 of Edge of Oblivion (Night Prowler 2)
It had been the same last night. He’d waited for the sun to go down before attempting to infiltrate the cupola where the man in white had disappeared. The scent of Alpha was on the stone outside and the glass panes, even lingered like an afterthought in the air above the altar, but then it evanesced and disappeared altogether. But there was something, some indefinable energy, in the very walls of the cathedral itself, vibrating from the foundations...
It made no sense. None of this made any sense.
The only reason he could fathom why an Ikati would go anywhere near what many considered the holiest church in Christendom was total ignorance. Since the half-Blood Queen Cleopatra had incited the rage of Caesar Augustus in AD 30, the Ikati had been hunted and persecuted, had long ago retreated into silence and small, well-fortified colonies to survive. The situation worsened in the thirteenth century when Pope Gregory IX instituted the Inquisition. Along with heretics, cats were declared diabolical. That set the stage for massive, church-approved executions. Cats were witches’ familiars, associated with the devil, dirty animals not to be trusted.
Too bad for humans. Because by the time the Black Plague hit a century later, there were barely any cats left to eat all those disease-carrying, flea-infested rats. Half of Europe’s population was wiped out in just a few years.
“Maybe we should go back to the Spanish Steps and try again there.” Morgan looked hopefully toward the massive doors behind them that led outside into fresh air and sunlight.
She didn’t look completely recovered from whatever spell the Alpha had put her under; she was still a little too flushed. And if he was still lurking around somewhere, Xander definitely didn’t want to give him another chance to get inside her skull.
“All right. We’ll come back tomorrow.” He made a move to take her arm, and she sent him a look of such frozen hostility it held his hand in place.
“I’m not an invalid,” she said.
He pressed his lips together to keep from smiling. “Clearly.”
“And you already know I’m not going to run away.”
“So you’ve said,” he replied, curt.
“Then why do you keep taking my arm whenever we’re walking?”
Because I like to touch you.
“Habit.” It was the first thing out of his mouth but not what he’d been thinking and obviously not what she was expecting, either, if her expression was any indication.
“So you’re a gentleman killer,” she said with soft scorn. “Did they teach you that at Assassin Academy? How to Make Nice with Your Prey One O One?”
He closed his eyes for just longer than a blink and found the memory of another soft, feminine arm he’d once loved to touch ready to torture him with fresh pain. Being around Morgan was peeling back the scabs on some old, nasty wounds, and he didn’t know what to do about it.
“My mistake. It won’t happen again.”
His voice was shorn of all emotion, but something dark moved within him, something angry and violent that needed an outlet. He felt the urge to fight, to beat something bloody, so keenly she sensed it and took a quick step back, blinking. He stared at her, cold as stone, then turned his back and walked away, out into the blinding bright sunshine of St. Peter’s Square.
And there, ringed around the base of the soaring granite obelisk in its center, stood six huge Ikati males, feral as wolves, staring right at him.
15
Adrenaline blasted like dynamite through his veins. Xander spun around, took four long running strides back inside the cathedral, grabbed Morgan’s arm, and yanked her hard against him.
“Run! ” he hissed into her ear. He shoved her in front of him.
She yelped in surprise and slipped in her heels over the slick marble, but it didn’t matter because he was right behind her, shoving her forward, holding her up when she stumbled.
“Xander! What’s going on! What are you—” He didn’t listen to a word she said, didn’t listen to the startled gasps of the people he shoved by, didn’t slow or look back to see if they were being followed. He knew his best—his only—chance of getting Morgan to safety was to move fast.
Faster than them.
The two of them skidded around an enormous marble column, her heels clattering against
the floor. She lost one then the other as he towed her mercilessly toward the great, golden papal altar where morning service was being held in the shadow of the colossal Baldacchino, a ninety-five-foot-
tall bronze monument carved by Bernini.
He felt the Ikati males enter the front of the cathedral one by one, dark bursts of energy that stung his skin like needles.
Morgan felt it too because she gasped and stiffened, turning to look over her shoulder.
