Page 96 of Rapture's Edge (Night Prowler 3)
It took her a long time to answer him. When she finally did speak, her voice was uneven and low. She spoke to their joined hands without looking at him. “Tell them to look in the catacombs. Tell them that’s where I said we lived—in the catacombs and the old abbey near the Sacré-Coeur in Montmartre—the DuMarne. We’re gone now, so it won’t matter, but there will be evidence we were there. It should be enough to keep you out of jail, make them think you’re cooperating. And I think…” She lifted her gaze to his, and it was utterly without hope. “I think this will be the last time we’ll see each other.”
Gregor glowered at her. “Don’t be stupid, princess! I’m not letting you—”
He broke off because out of the corner of his eye, he saw the picture on the television change to a scene in St. Peter’s Square, at the Vatican.
Chaos.
Thousands of people screaming, pushing, trampling one another. Wobbly video of blood-splattered cobblestones and toppled wooden barriers and scores of frantic police trying to direct and control the plainly terrified, surging crowd. A long, grainy shot of a balcony draped in crimson bunting, an empty window with a long streak of blood dripping down the panes.
The caption read, “Christmas Day Slaughter at St. Peter’s Basilica—Pope Injured, Feared Dead.”
When the picture cut to a replay of the earlier live broadcast of the pope’s speech, Gregor—a man who had seen many grisly, ungodly things, who had himself done many grisly, ungodly things—thought he might lose his bland hospital breakfast.
Blood. So much blood. Great, arcing sprays of blood, almost comical in the sheer, unlikely volume of gore, like something from a Tarantino movie. A blur of black fur and claws and muscled sleek bodies, whiskered snouts with long, sharp white fangs tearing viciously into vulnerable human necks.
Into arms. Into legs. All of which split apart in lurid bursts of meat and juice like overripe fruit, squeezed hard.
Half a dozen black panthers had attacked the crowd at the Vatican during the pope’s morning address, and another had attacked the pope himself.
Right there on camera. For all the world to see.
He had Eliana’s hand in his; he gripped it so hard she said, “Ow, Gregor!” and tried to pull away. But it was as if his muscles had hardened to stone—he simply could not let go.
She turned her head and followed his gaze. There was a beat before she recognized what she was seeing, and then, with a sound of strangled horror, Eliana leapt from the bed, tore her hand from his, and covered her open mouth.
Gregor’s eyes followed hers and, in following, stuck. The expression on her face was indescribable—fear mixed with panic mixed with despair and revulsion—her features screwed into a grimace of such pure, animal horror she was almost unrecognizable.
“No. No. No, no, no, no, no. Please, please no!”
She whispered it over and over in low, choked shock, her face white, hands trembling violently, still covering her mouth. The whites of her eyes showed all around her black irises. Then Eliana reacted as if an invisible fist had swung hard and connected with her stomach. All the breath left her body in a startling, harsh whoosh, and she collapsed into the chair beside the bed like a discarded ragdoll. A sob that sounded like she was dying slipped from her lips.
He looked back at the television. The image had changed to one of a handsome, dark-haired man, black-eyed and confident, smiling the most chilling smile Gregor had ever seen. He was odd and otherworldly in the same way as Eliana, and the fervor that burned in his eyes made Agent Doe look like a Girl Scout.
The news announcer said, “The news media has received this prerecorded video from the unknown terrorist group claiming responsibility for the attack,” and the handsome man began—cheerfully, with veneration and pomp, as if delivering the commencement to a graduating class—to speak.
“Merry Christmas, humans, and allow me to introduce myself. I’m your new God…”
All the world fell away, and instant, encompassing agony arose to take its place.
Eliana felt as if her skin had been peeled off with one sharp, violent tug and she was standing there raw and exposed, muscle and tendon and bone. Pain seared bright and blistering through her as if she were one giant nerve, scraped raw.
The knowledge of what had been done and what would surely follow was instantaneous.
Her people: hunted.
Her colony: killed.
Her dreams: dead.
In one fell stroke, Caesar had sealed all their fates. There would never be recompense for this. There would never be forgiveness. There would be war everlasting.
There would be extinction.
The magnitude of it was breath-stealingly astonishing.
A sound drew her attention away from the television, where Caesar was still speaking. It was Gregor, cursing, his face ashen, his gaze on the opposite side of the room, where a hand had appeared, curled around the fabric curtain. The curtain was whisked briskly aside.
“Oh dear.” Agent Doe looked between the two of them. His one blue eye burned. “Am I interrupting?”
