Page 43 of Edge of Darkness (Night Prowler 4)
He gurgled and twitched, clutching his chest as if he could fill the bloody hole with his hands. Then he sagged to his knees, listed sideways, and silently slumped to the pavement. His head hit the ground with a flat smack. He jerked once, then fell still. Blood began to pool in a swiftly widening, erratic circle around his body.
Christian looked up just in time to see three blue and white police cruisers screech to a stop at the end of the street, lights flashing. He released the heart—dripping blood and steaming in the night air—from his jaws, turned, and limped away.
As instructed, Ember ran straight to find Corbin, pushing through the crowd that at first was strolling casually, then, when two shots rang out in the night, screaming and fleeing in panic.
She was fleeing in panic, too.
It can’t be it can’t be it can’t be! Over and over in her mind it repeated like a record stuck in a groove.
There were images flashing behind her eyes, voices spinning in her head, things she’d seen on the news and heard on the radio—the few times she’d allowed herself to listen to the radio, which was rarely, as it was too painful to hear music—and a terrible picture was coming together in her mind. A picture of chaos.
A picture of carnage.
She concentrated on pushing it back for the moment, because if she allowed it to break free and flood her with the full horror of it, all the details that were lurking just there behind her wide-open eyes, she wasn’t sure if she could put one foot in front of the other, not even to run for her life.
If I told you it was a matter of life or death, would you believe me?
Was it?
Yes.
In light of what she’d just seen, the strange transformation in Christian, his eyes and voice and posture, the vicious, animal hiss resounding in his chest, the conversation took on an entirely new meaning.
She found the Audi idling at the curb two blocks away, Corbin’s face white and strained through the windshield as he watched people flood the streets, running, stumbling, shouting. She slammed into the side of the car, clawed at the driver’s door handle. She tore it open.
“Christian!” Ember panted it, bent over, staring at a horrified Corbin. “He’s—three men—the alley two blocks over—”
She pointed, then froze in horror. Then she turned and ran away, as fast and as far as she could.
Because at her words, Corbin’s eyes began to change just as Christian’s had.
Caesar Cardinalis was a man used to getting his own way.
The son of a king, he was now a king himself, his brilliant, devious father having been killed by one of his own personal guard more than three years ago. Caesar had often fantasized about killing his father—patricide had marred the perfection of his lineage on more than one occasion—but lacked the necessary courage to complete the task, not understanding while the old bastard was alive that he was, in fact, risking nothing at all.
Because Caesar was Gifted with something the Ikati had never seen, in all their glorious history: immortality.
Oh, they had the Gift of transformation—human to panther, panther to Vapor, some of them could even walk through solid walls—and they had other Gifts, too, powerful Gifts particular to each, like Suggestion and Invisibility and Foresight. Nature having the sense of humor she does, Caesar had none of those Gifts, so common to his people. He couldn’t even Shift to panther, their most elemental form, and so was considered by most—okay, all—of his kin a dedecus.
Disgrace.
He used to be considered a disgrace, that is. It wasn’t until he was betrayed by one of his closest council, just as his father had been, until he’d been killed and instantly resurrected, that he realized the full truth of what he’d been given. Then his star had risen like a sign in the East.
For those who have no fear of death, life becomes an extraordinary banquet.
Since he and his small cadre of trusted associates had arrived in Barcelona months ago, Caesar had used the beautiful city the way a child uses a playground. Nothing was off-limits, nothing was left untried or untasted, especially the voluptuous, sloe-eyed Flamenco dancers he so loved.
They screamed so enchantingly.
He was enjoying the shrill, choking screams of one of the lovely dancers—stripped bare, chained to the wall, bloody, bruised, and fabulous—just as Nico burst into the room.
“Sire! We’re under attack! They know we’re here! You’re in grave danger!”
Caesar turned away from the girl and gave the panting, sweating Nico a sour once-over. He lowered the cat-o’-nine-tails to his side and sighed. The man was always so dramatic.
“My dear Nico,” he drawled, “I’m incredibly busy at the moment, as you can surely see.” He gestured to the girl, now moaning and begging in broken Spanish for God to save her. A busty, voluptuous brunette, she writhed against the wall. The iron shackles around her wrists clanged so loudly that the Bach concerto playing softly in the background was momentarily drowned out. “Whatever this danger is, I’m sure it can wait until I’m finished.”
Because in reality, there was no danger to him. What should he be afraid of? A bullet? A knife? An army of a thousand screaming warriors? No, none of that would make any difference at all. Caesar would go on forever just as he was now, shot or stabbed or attacked by a mob, or torn limb from limb in the streets.
