Edge of Oblivion

down on top of them.

Three huge males appeared in the doorway to her right. They skidded to a stop as they saw Dominus and Xander grappling beneath the pile of instruments and the ruins of the rack. A fourth male—bald, pierced, and tattooed—appeared in the arched doorway on the opposite side of the room.

He took in the scene in one swift glance and froze. His hard face blanched; his expression turned incredulous, then, strangely, elated.

Dominus leapt clear of the debris and landed a dozen feet away, crouched and snarling, his attention still focused on Xander, who had thrown off the crumpled rack and struggled to his feet in the middle of the debris. When Dominus spied the bald male on the opposite side of the room, a look —savage, bloodthirsty—passed between them.

“You didn’t tell me he was immune to mind control!” Dominus screamed, teeth bared.

The male stared back at him, hatred darkening his face. “I didn’t tell you a lot of things.”

Dominus stared at him for one fleeting, suspended moment. Then, horrified, he whispered, “Eliana.”

With the suddenness of a switch being thrown, the temperature in the room dropped thirty degrees. Ice formed on the walls, rose in long, crackling white fingers up the black stone. Morgan’s breath frosted out in pale clouds in front of her face. The air itself began to shiver and hum.

Then something happened.

It was like a detonation. All the air sucked into a tight core and then exploded, lightless and silent, in a blast that ripped through the room. It flung the tattooed male back against the wall with devastating force. He was suspended there for a moment, spread-eagle, gulping ragged breaths, his huge body twitching. Dominus pulled a small dagger from his belt and flung it across the room.

With a sickening pop, it sank deep into the male’s chest. He slid down the wall and crumpled to the ground.

As one, the three males at the door let out a deafening roar of fury. The bare-chested one and the long- haired one launched themselves across the room and landed, sliding into a jolting stop, against the stone wall beside the wounded male. Their companion, a beautiful male with classically perfect features, stood rigid in the doorway, staring in horror at the scene. He looked toward Dominus and Xander—who was now well clear of the debris and crouched to pounce on Dominus—and reached into the waistband of his pants and pulled out a handgun.

“Xander!” Morgan screamed.

And just as Xander spun to heed her warning, Dominus snatched a wicked-looking blade from the mess of weapons on the floor and plunged it into his back.

Impossible! her heart screamed. Then her voice rose to echo it, ripping its way out of her like a thing with claws, gutting her as it went. She screamed and screamed and watched in helpless horror as Xander sank to his knees, lips parted in surprise, wide eyes focused on her face.

“I told you, Morgan,” snarled Dominus, teeth bared as he glared at her. A fine spray of Xander’s blood was misted across the pristine white linen of his shirt. “I told you I win!”

“That’s what you think,” said a hard voice from her right.

Then there was a thunderous crack of noise near her head, a flash of light, a wave of hot, pressurized air and the smell of gunpowder. Dominus staggered back several steps and a small, perfect hole appeared in the center of his forehead. For a moment he looked confused. From the hole trickled a tiny rivulet of blood. He touched a finger to it.

Looked at his hand in incomprehension.

Frowned.

Then slowly pitched backward and fell unmoving to the floor.

A few feet away, Xander wavered on his knees, fell forward onto his hands. Blood from the wound in his back had rained an inkblot pattern over the backs of his legs and the stone on which he knelt. His face was white, white as the frost on the walls.

“Xander!” Morgan screamed, straining against the wrist restraints. “Xander, no! ”

The male in the doorway beside her tucked the gun into his waistband and came to stand in front of her. “Paenitet,” he said, gazing at her with those black, black eyes. “I’m sorry. We are not all like him.”

He unchained her, snapping the restraints circling her wrists and ankles as if they were twigs instead of iron. As soon as she was free she ran, sobbing and nearly blinded by tears, to Xander and flung her arms around his neck. She heard his sharp inhalation, heard the faint, faint sound inside his chest.

“You were right, I’m afraid,” he murmured, pressing his face to her hair. He slumped sideways and she caught him, eased him down to the cold stone. He gazed up at her, pale and solemn, as she cradled his head. “About happy endings. I should have known it would end like this.” His lips, so full and soft, lips she’d kissed with dark, dark greed, curved to a wry smile. “I’m not the hero. I don’t save the day.” His eyelids fluttered, his voice grew faint. “I don’t get the girl.”

“No, no, no, no, no.” She kept repeating it, sobbing hysterically as blood bright red and warm began to pool beneath her. “Xander, please, stay with me, stay with me!”

“I wasn’t going to do it,” he murmured, gazing up into her eyes. “You know that, don’t you? I wasn’t ever going to...hurt you.” He drew a long, shuddering breath, and his voice dropped to the barest of whispers.

“I could never hurt you. I love you too damn much.”

Then his eyes closed and his head dropped to the floor. With three pairs of hands on his arms, back, and shoulders, D was lifted to his feet.

“Fuck, you’re heavy,” muttered Lix from behind him. “What’ve you got in your pockets, rocks?”

He didn’t recognize the wheeze that came out of his throat as his own. It sounded like the death rattle of a very old, very sick man. The knife embedded in his chest sent out wave upon wave of excruciating pain, blood flowed hot and fast down his chest, the room had lost its shape. He was helpless to stand without support, as all the strength had left his legs.

“Some of us have actual muscle, Lix,” he croaked, sliding very close to the wall of wavering gray fog that lurked in the corners of his vision. Breathing too deeply made the fog roll closer; that knife had punctured a lung. As evidenced by that sickening rattle in his chest.

At least it had missed his heart. That male on the floor didn’t look so lucky.

“Shut up, both of you,” Celian snapped. “If we don’t get you to the infirmary fast, you’re going to bleed out before we can sew you up, D.”

D remembered the last time he’d been sewn up. A faint smile crossed his face.

“We’ve got to contain the situation,” said Constantine. He eased his shoulder beneath D’s raised arm, took hold of his hand, and hoisted it around his neck, wrapping his other arm around D’s back. On his other side, Celian did the same. “We could have a mutiny on our hands if we don’t handle this right.”

“Trust me, no one’s going to miss him,” Celian muttered, glancing at Dominus’s body. A pool of blood had seeped from the bullet wound and formed a perfect circle around his head like the gory halo of some biblical devil.

His daughter might, D thought, then sucked in a breath as pain shot down his spine. Celian and Constantine had taken several steps forward, managing his weight between them. They made their way slowly across the room.

“Even so, the Legiones might make a move on us,” Constantine said. “We’re going to have to present a united front, be in control, manage what happens next. In other words, take decisive action.

Nature hates a vacuum, boys, so let’s not give ’em one.”

His voice very low, Lix said, “And her?”

No one had to look to see who he meant. On her knees beside the pale, still male they’d chased at the Vatican, the female rocked back and forth silently, shaking, both hands over her face. Her unbound hair shrouded her naked shoulders and back in gleaming mahogany.

Celian spoke. “As far as I’m concerned, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. And I think we’ve all seen enough bloodshed. Let them go.”