Edge of Oblivion

“The head of the Expurgari,” Xander repeated slowly.

She shook her head. “I’ll explain it all later. Right now you should rest. You look a little pale.”

He caught her wrist and held it, pulling her closer to him. He sat up in bed and ignored the searing pain along his spine. “You mean—we’re not fugitives? This trip—this boat—”

“Oh!” she said, startled. “No! God, no, we’re not fugitives. All five of us have been completely cleared.”

He stared at her. “All five of us.”

At that exact moment, heavy footsteps pounded over the roof above his head. A smile flitted over Morgan’s lips as she watched him follow the sound with his eyes as it moved overhead, growing softer then louder, thumping down what sounded like a flight of stairs. A dark head popped in the high, round window, then disappeared; someone had jumped up to look in.

A heavy hand knocked on the door.

Then to Morgan’s amused “Come in,” Tomas and Mateo burst through the door.

“Hey, asshole,” Mateo said, smiling. “You look like death warmed over.”

Tomas nodded a greeting and leaned his huge frame against the wall. “Fuckface.”

“Bartleby is on deck, making dinner,” Morgan said gently, seeing Xander’s open-mouthed astonishment. “Your friends here are quite the fishermen.”

“So far I’ve caught blue marlin, yellowfin tuna, wahoo, even sailfish,” Tomas bragged.

“Kadavu is amazing!”

“Kadavu,” Xander repeated, finding it hard to know where to look. His brain wasn’t translating information properly. He had to be hearing this wrong.

“Fiji,” said Mateo with an eye roll, as if it should have been obvious. “Seventy-five miles of pristine barrier reef with water so clear you can see the bottom of the ocean from the boat. Jungle-

covered volcanic hills, mangrove bays, snow-white beaches...what?”

He trailed off because Xander had closed his eyes. He was sure he was deathly pale.

Morgan leaned close to his ear. “I told you I always wanted to see a sunrise in Fiji,” she murmured, her hand on his arm. “So now I’ll get to see one. Or...” she giggled, and it made his blood sing, “...maybe two or three.”

He opened his eyes and saw her devilish grin and began to laugh, a hoarse, shaky sound that hitched in his chest and caught in his throat and made Morgan’s grin falter. His laughter died, and he roughly pulled her against him and buried his face in her hair.

“Jesus, woman,” he said, ragged, all restraint gone, “do you have any idea how much I love you?”

She pulled back and gazed down at him, eyes alight. “Probably not as much as I love you,” she whispered, then bent to kiss his lips.

“Jeez, get a room,” grumbled Tomas, but Xander hardly heard it. Against her protests, he hauled Morgan on top of him and wrapped his arms around her, ignoring the ache between his shoulder blades and in his chest, caution at last thrown to the wind. He heard the cabin door close softly and the sound of footsteps receding.

“Marry me,” he said between breathless kisses, struggling to rid her of her dress.

“I doubt there’s a priest on this island,” she replied with a low laugh, then sat up and pulled the dress over her head. It was discarded to the floor, and she lay back against him, her skin warm against his. “There are just beaches and coves and coconut trees. And anyway, you’re in no shape to stand at an altar, my love.”

He took that as a challenge and pulled her close. “Allow me to demonstrate exactly the shape I’m in.” He took her hand and maneuvered it beneath the covers, to the straining hardness between his legs.

She laughed again, and it was like honey to his ears, sweet and dark and delicious. “Oh, how I do admire an ambitious man. But you’re still healing. A few more days and then—”

“And then you will be sore for a week,” he growled, nipping at her neck.

She allowed him that much, relaxed back against him so he could trail his hands over her bare skin and inhale her scent and kiss her, and all the while she smiled at him like a cat with all the cream.

“What is that mysterious look of yours, love of mine?” he whispered, stroking her face.

“Do you notice anything different about me?” she said coyly.

He let his gaze drift over her naked body. “If I say no,” he said, husky, “how much trouble will I be in?”

“A lot,” she laughed, “considering you’re the one who put the damn thing on!”

He frowned and she stretched back her head, gazed at him from beneath her lashes, and trailed her fingers down her throat with a flourish. “Your friend Mateo is quite good with a blowtorch. Didn’t even leave a mark.”

He inhaled sharply. The collar: it was gone. Feeling a tightness in his chest, he brushed his fingers over her neck, the fine sweep of her collarbones. The blowtorch hadn’t left a mark, but a faint ring of circular bruises the size of his thumb marred the perfect skin just over her jugular on the left side of her neck. He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, disgusted with himself.

I will never, he thought as a violent rush of love and possessiveness swept through him, do anything to hurt her again.

He opened his eyes and quietly said, “I was wrong to do that. I’ve been wrong about so much.

You’ll have to be patient with me, Morgan, because I’m stubborn and temperamental and I’m going to make stupid mistakes, probably a lot of them. But I swear I’ll do my best to make you happy every single day of your life, if you let me. I will love you, and no other, until I take my last breath, and when I’m dead I’ll keep on loving you. Forever.”

She swallowed and turned away for a moment, took a few deep breaths. Her eyes closed and then blinked open, and she turned back to him and whispered, “I was wrong about something, too.”

“What?”

She smiled and cupped her hand against his face. “There are happy endings for people like us.

Welcome to our happily ever after, my love.”

Then she leaned in and very softly pressed her lips against his.

Epilogue

Saturday, the twelfth of August, 20—

Another sweltering day, another endless night. Everything is so different here. It is difficult to adjust.

My brother and I and a small group of loyalists from the colony have settled near the basilica of the Sacre Coeur in Montmartre, on the top floor of a tall building at the crest of the city’s highest hill. Sometimes we are lost in the clouds here. Sometimes it seems the horizon stretches on forever.

I find myself often wandering the shadowed crypts of the nearby catacombs, so much more familiar than my new house in the sky. On those wandering walks, my mind is a black tangle of schemes and memories and unanswered questions. Like a ghost I haunt the twisting corridors in those silent, dark hours before dawn, my thoughts a sea of hungry rats, chewing holes in my mind, devouring the memory of the naive girl I was. Devouring any shadow of softness that still lingers.

I wish the hungry rats would eat the memory of him.

But that is the one thing they leave untouched. Traitorous rats.

At least I’m not alone; that I don’t think I could bear. I have others here to help me finish the work my father started—and this will be difficult, as his journals were left behind and he never shared his vision with me—others that believe as I do that what he had planned for his people must have been good, that his death must not go unavenged. We are few and they are many, so for now I must be content to stalk the bone-lined corridors of les carrieres de Paris while plans are made and alliances are forged.

While the blueprint for vengeance is drawn.

“Eliana.”