Edge of Oblivion

She dropped the phone on the desk and went back to Xander. He looked so massive and male on that dainty sofa, so overpowering and at the same time oddly peaceful with his closed eyes, his deep, heavy breathing. Like a napping bull.

A beautiful, half-naked, bloody, napping bull, with a chest full of hatch marks.

She picked up the shirt she’d removed from him and pressed it softly against the oozing wound on his abdomen. He jerked, moaning.

“Shhhh,” she murmured. “I need to keep pressure on it. To help stop the bleeding. I’m sorry.

I’m sorry if it hurts. And I’m going to stay right here with you. I won’t leave you.”

He muttered something that sounded like the password she’d just whispered into the phone, then sank back into unconsciousness.

18

“They’re not coming.”

It was Celian who finally said aloud what everyone had been thinking for the past thirty minutes, and true to his nature, his voice was stone-cold. He was the largest of the group at almost six foot eight and 280 pounds of solid muscle, and about as cuddly as a shark. He was dressed, as they all were, in one of the many sets of spare clothes kept tucked away in nooks and crannies all over Rome for occasions such as this, when escape as Vapor was necessary and their leathers and weapons were abandoned. This latest cache had been retrieved from the bell tower of an abandoned fourth-century church.

“Let’s wait another five minutes,” said Constantine, flicking a glance at Celian’s hard face.

They all knew what failure meant and that the brunt of the punishment would fall to the first-in-

command. And for failing to return with either one of their intended targets, the consequences would be very bad.

Lix growled an agreement, and Demetrius—known to the Bellatorum simply as D —remained characteristically silent. Ironically named after a Greek orator who died in the first century BC, D often went days at a time without speaking a word. In addition to his menacing silence, his head was shaved, he sported several eyebrow piercings and sinister neck tattoos, and he was prone to outbursts of unprovoked violence. Though all the Bellatorum—the warriors—were feared by their people, he was downright dreaded.

Celian glanced up at the deep blue bowl of sky visible in small slices through the windows ringed around the upper few feet of the stone ceiling. Above the ancient subterranean church whose rooftop rose just a few feet above street level, stars were beginning to wink to life. “No sense putting it off,” he said, practical as ever. “The longer we wait, the worse it will be when he finally hears it.”

He pushed off the crumbling Doric column he’d been leaning on, walked across the worn stone floor, and disappeared through a hidden door behind the altar. Lix, Constantine, and D shared a look, then followed.

The corridor they entered was barely more than shoulder-wide and so low in some places they had to duck their heads. It was chilly and damp and near black, but they had lived here for so many years they were accustomed to the temperature and didn’t need lights to guide the way. They walked in silence for more than ten minutes, descending farther into the earth as they followed the main corridor and its worn, winding stairs. Other corridors yawned open and snaked away into darkness as they passed. None of them glanced up to admire the age-worn frescoes of gods and vineyards and cherubs at play on the rough ceiling above; none paid heed to the empty hollows where centuries ago bodies had been wrapped in linen and lain to rest. Except for the scuffs of their boots on the dusty tufa, it was quiet as a crypt. And just as cheerful.

“Over forty catacombs beneath Rome, and we have to get stuck in the one that smells like feet,” muttered Lix, bringing up the rear.

“It’s the biggest one, Felix,” said Constantine, knowing Lix would hate hearing his given name and hoping to divert another one of his legendary diatribes about the smell of the catacombs where the Bellatorum and the soldier class of Legiones lived and trained. The Optimates, the Electi, and the Servorum—the aristocracy, the chosen females of the King’s harem, and the servant castes—lived in nearby catacombs that were accessed by a series of connected tunnels they’d dug themselves. All the catacombs had been deserted for centuries, and many were still undiscovered by the outside world.

“And thank Horus for it, because I’m going to have to go somewhere far away to get away from your constant complaining. You’re like an old woman.”

“Watch yourself, beauty queen,” shot back Lix, taking the bait. “Or I’ll torch that shoe collection you’ve got. What are you up to now, about ten thousand pair? And are all those hair products really necessary? You could start your own salon.”

Constantine snorted and tossed his head, sending glossy jet hair spilling over his shoulder. He was, by all accounts, the most beautiful male of the kingdom. Some said he was even more beautiful than the principessa Eliana herself. Females swooned over him, and he took great advantage of it, but he had unswerving loyalty to his brothers and was always the first to put himself in harm’s way for one of them. Which was lucky for him, or else jealousy would have most likely made everyone hate his guts.

“At least I bathe,” said Constantine, taking a loud and pointed sniff in Lix’s direction.

“And you smell like a damn rose garden! Is that perfume?”

“Put a sock in it, ladies,” growled Celian over his shoulder. “Unless one of you wants to be the one to explain our situation to the King.”

That silenced them. No one ever wanted to be the bearer of bad news to Dominus. There was only a fifty- fifty chance your tongue would stay attached.

A few more minutes of walking through the silent underground labyrinth, and finally they arrived.

The corridor opened abruptly into a vast, soaring space decorated like the keep of a Gothic castle. There were no windows in this place, but there were Egyptian statues and ancestral portraits and beeswax candles in iron braziers dripping wax to the stone floor. There was chunky wood furniture and Persian rugs and a long table with carved high-back chairs that seated thirty. Red velvet sofas lined one wall; shining suits of armor flanked a massive glass case of antique weaponry.

In the center of the room sat an elaborate throne of dark wood with clawed feet and crimson cushions. Its back curved up to a high, sharp point, atop which perched a grinning human skull, cocked askew on a spike.

Upon the throne sat a man. He was large yet lithe and dressed in snowy white, as always, which contrasted with the burnished honey-bronze shade of his skin. From his neck hung a golden talisman on a chain: the Eye of Horus, symbol of the ancient Egyptian god of war and vengeance. Dominus believed himself the reincarnation of Horus, and all the warriors had the symbol branded on their left shoulders when they were indoctrinated into the Bellatorum.

“Gentlemen,” said the King. His deep voice carried easily over the distance between them.

“How fare you?”

“Well, sire.” Celian bowed his head. The others, lining up beside him, followed suit and remained silent.

“Well?” Dominus repeated in a questioning tone. In turn, the warriors each felt the sharp, fleeting sting of the King’s gaze upon them. “Indeed?”

Celian lifted his head and met his master’s gaze. “We four are well, sire,” he equivocated, “but as for Aurelio and Lucien, I cannot say. They did not return to the rendezvous point as agreed.”

All the candles in the chamber sputtered in a sudden cold breeze. Celian felt his brothers beside him tense and concentrated on keeping his own body relaxed, his breathing regular. The King thrived on fear and sensed it like a snake senses a mouse. If he hadn’t seen otherwise for himself, he’d have thought the King’s tongue was forked.

“The rendezvous point,” the King drawled, sardonic, lounging against the back of his throne with one leg crossed casually over the other. “Which means you split up.”

“The male escaped through the wall of the Vatican, sire—”