Page 81 of Edge of Oblivion (Night Prowler 2)
“Go and see if there is any word,” Dominus instructed, pulling a thick notebook from a locked drawer in his desk. He set it carefully on the blotter and ran his fingers over the fine linen cover, darkened with use and frayed at the edges. Leather would have been more durable, but he found the idea of his life’s work bound in the skin of a bovine corpse disgusting.
Silas murmured an acknowledgment and drifted silently to the door. Once there, he executed a low bow and straightened, allowing Dominus a clear view of the long, aquiline nose, the impenetrable black eyes, the small, secret smile.
Silas had good reason to smile. He alone knew the full measure of his King’s plans.
“And bring that new female you acquired yesterday to the fovea,” Dominus added, a flash of heat tightening his groin at the memory of the blonde tourist who had been snatched by one of the Legiones from a bar near the Pantheon. She looked a lot like the newscaster. Blonde. Busty. Stupid.
He wondered how loudly he could make her scream.
Silas bowed again and retreated silently into the opaque darkness of the winding corridor beyond the library. When he was alone, Dominus opened his notebook and began to write, his script fluid and precise: In keeping with the results of Dodd’s experiments with reproductive isolation, my calculations suggest a period of eight generations will be necessary to engender a permanent alteration in the gene pool to achieve speciation once the correct antiserum formula has been isolated and applied to the existing population. Further, through artificial insemination of stud-quality females and embryonic transfer to surrogate females we may concurrently increase the number of pure-Blood offspring, thereby exponentially expanding both breeding stock and pure-Blood subjects. In a matter of only a few generations, the enemy ge
ne pool will be irreparably damaged and ultimately destroyed.
Along with their terrible legacy of war, ignorance, and unrelenting greed, Homo sapiens will vanish from the face of the earth forever.
Dominus set the fountain pen on the blotter, closed the notebook, and slowly exhaled.
And so their world will end, he thought with deep satisfaction, staring at Horus, just as T. S.
Eliot predicted. Not with a bang, but a whimper. And I will be the architect of it all.
He locked the notebook away and rose, heading for the fovea, hoping Silas remembered to bring his favorite steel qilinbian whip along with the blonde.
The knock that came through the closed bedroom door was tentative, and so was the voice that followed it.
“Alexander,” Bartleby murmured through the wood.
Xander tightened his arms around Morgan’s body and pulled her closer. They’d spent the entire day in bed, making love, dozing in the semidark, not speaking of anything or anyone outside the walls of this room. He felt twilight descending outside, but he wasn’t ready to get up yet. He was going to savor every last moment.
“Not a good time, Doc,” said Xander quietly, looking down at Morgan’s sleeping face. She still radiated the heat of the Fever, but it burned lower now. Soon it would be done...and so would they.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s something you need to see.” Bartleby cleared his throat, a worried sound. “It’s important.”
Morgan made a little noise in her sleep and burrowed closer to Xander’s chest. He put his nose into the dark mass of her hair and inhaled deeply, wondering if this would be the last time he’d ever be able to do it. The thought sent a spike of pain through his chest.
“Amada,” he murmured. Beloved. He stroked a hand up her arm. “I need to leave for a minute.”
She made another sleepy noise, protesting, and he pressed a kiss to her temple.
“I don’t want to either, but I’ll bring you something to eat,” he whispered, nuzzling against her throat. She arched into him, responsive even when asleep, her fingers twined into his hair. He hardened instantly, eager for her—again—but there came another tentative knock on the door and he sighed.
Just a few minutes. He’d take only a few minutes, and then he’d be back, back with her scent and her skin and that slow, mischievous smile that melted his heart and inflamed his body...
He couldn’t get enough of her. He couldn’t imagine not being able to touch her, kiss her. Not now, not after they’d stared silently, rapt and amazed, into one another’s eyes while their bodies and souls merged, over and over again. And he suspected, in a very dark, abandoned corner of his heart, he wasn’t going to honor his promise to end things between them.
She would make him a liar, consequences be damned.
He pressed a quick kiss against the pulse in her throat and rose, pulling the sheet up to cover her naked body. She murmured something not quite audible— goblins?—then drifted back down into slumber.
He dressed quickly, strapped on the knives he was never without, and went to the door.
“I’m sorry,” Bartleby said again when Xander stepped into the corridor. He shut the door softly behind him.
“What is it?”
The doctor shook his head, motioned to the stairs. “You’ll want to see this.” He turned and quickly made his way down the hallway with Xander close on his heels.
They climbed the stairs and entered the big media room with its somber, masculine decor of charcoal walls, black leather sofas, glass-and-stainless-steel coffee and side tables. Recessed lights in the ceiling glowed softly off the flat screen that hung above a sleek black credenza.
